


Hiraeth

by nitto_onna



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-04-18 18:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14219145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitto_onna/pseuds/nitto_onna
Summary: 'Don't go'.She longed to make the softly pleaded words that had so often taken the breath from his body fall from her lips but she couldn't do it. Not again. She was tired of begging people to love her. She knew a long time ago that you cannot change that what is fundamentally vicious. And now, finally, Newt Scamander knew it too.





	1. Hiraeth

_A scorpion and a frog meet on the bank of a stream and the scorpion asks the frog to carry him across on its back._

_The frog asks, "How do I know you won't sting me?"_

_The scorpion says, "Because if I do, I will die too."_

_The frog is satisfied, and they set out, but in midstream, the scorpion stings the frog._

_The frog feels the onset of paralysis and starts to sink, knowing they both will drown, but has just enough time to gasp: "Why? Now we will be both perish."_

_Replies the scorpion: "Because it is my nature..."_

_\- Aesop_

 

_“Who?”_

But of course, he knows who she is.

His lies began the minute he stepped off the boat in America. Good natured, well-meaning untruths designed to appropriately uphold the International Statute of Secrecy, conceal and protect his beloved creatures and at times quell the interference, concern and occasional nosiness of two kind-hearted sisters.

His interaction with Tina Goldstein was particularly dotted with dishonesties and deceptions during his whirlwind adventure in New York but he had never told as many consecutive lies to the pretty, inquisitive woman as he did during their final minutes together.

Having Tina Goldstein of all people unexpectedly, and somewhat shakily, say the few syllables that can cruelly pull at the ache in his chest he’s learned to carry is somewhat unexpected. The guilt he had acquired after his abrupt rudeness towards Queenie dissolved instantaneously into even more magnified annoyance at the golden-haired Goldstein for her further interference. Not even being entirely aware of what specifics Queenie had pulled from his head, he had tried to dispel anything particularly personal or intimate about them when his initial pain slipped at the mention of her photograph, but he was still slightly panicked at what Queenie could have discussed with her sister.

“Does Leta Lestrange like to read?”

It’s an odd question but he’s never understood people well.

He can’t place her tone. It’s not accusatory or angry. But there’s something sad about it. It appears she worked up a lot of courage to ask such an inexplicable question and now her eyes are full of regret and fear at the answer. He feels like he just took a bludger to the chest and he needs a few more seconds to compose himself and construct an answer so he delays by asking who in an innocently confused murmur as if he didn’t hear properly. A large part of him hopes that he’s given her an opportunity to lose her nerve and hastily brush off her strange question, but she presses again though this time with her shoulders squared and a touch more confidence.

“The girl whose picture you carry.”

He detects a little accusation now. Rightfully so, he feels. So effortlessly forgetting a girl whose picture you carry, who your feelings for were only brought up yesterday probably would paint you in a no better light than lying about it anyway. Never being great at this sort of thing, he thought their conversation was going remarkably well until he was blindsided with this and he was so unprepared he was already convinced _she_ would, as usual, be his undoing.

It seemed Tina wasn’t overly impressed at the best of times at his behaviour during his chaotic visit so perhaps his best route of out this prickly subject was the truth. She was owed a few of those at the least. Having many disorganised thoughts, Newt thought about the strange request at hand. Oh. L…(it’s just her name, Merlin’s beard) _Leta’s_ reading habits? His brother’s annoying and unwanted advice about women never meaning what they say exactly popped into his head (he started to wish he’d listened a little more now), but he thought he’d take the chance that for some inexplicable reason Tina wanted to know about a stranger’s reading habits.

It wasn’t a particularly loaded question on the surface, seemingly easy enough to quickly dive into the carefully contained and suppressed part of his mind. But Newt knew that pulling on a single thread of anything Leta Lestrange proved as risky as inching open his suitcase with a far greater chance of being left in eviscerating pain for days. But he could bear it for Tina, he decided.

_Yes._

Leta Lestrange did like to read.

Maybe it started at her family’s gloomy and opulent castle where she was always in trouble and locked away, unable to escape into the surrounding woodland hinterland (at least while her stepmother’s house elves were watching), and with little to do except wander the many libraries and flip through dusty, untouched books for hours on end. Knowledge was power to Leta. And the Lestranges were relentless when it came to the pursuit of power. He often thought she was the pure embodiment of Ravenclaw and wondered on many occasions why she was not sorted there.

He remembers watching her face, carefully and protectively from across the crowded common room, lovely as always and free from any evidence of the tears he had wiped away with his thumbs minutes before. Trying not to wince and chuckle at how her eyebrows were knitted together and how she bit into her lower lip between sentences as she initiated the conversation they had practised. She was in an amusing battle between nervous and determined and concentrating far too hard that she probably looked confused and angry to everyone who was not him. When she turned away she looked over at him with the muggle book she had just borrowed off a previously Lestrange-phobic (and now quite befuddled and slightly entranced) muggleborn student. She didn’t stop chewing her lip in uncertainty until she could see his encouraging smile.

He remembered breaking into the restricted section for books they needed, as many as they could carry, to piece together what they could about the creatures they had discovered.

He remembered her watching his Quidditch Match from a tower window while serving her usual detention. This time she’d been caught breaking into Ravenclaw tower (by continuously outsmarting the entry riddles or simply scaling the tower – another skill acquired through years of breaking in and out of her family’s fortress) because she didn’t think it fair they had a library of their own. He scored the first point and looked up before the commentator even had time to announce it to see if she had seen. She had smiled and pressed a kiss to the glass rendering him completely paralysed before a bludger crashed into his head ending his portion of the game before it had barely begun.

He remembers her perched in a tree with their small and still growing menagerie reading to him as he listened or took notes.

How she would use books as a prop or a disguise sometimes to avoid people and on occasion, himself. Staring at the same page for an hour at a time so he knew that she didn’t want to talk about it. It being many disturbing and horrifying things that varied in severity and frequency and all of which made him want to sprint to wherever she was in the castle, grab her hand and run as far and for as long as they possibly could.

_Just a little longer, my love._

So instead he would sit beside her, pretend to read too and not ask until she closed her own book. Not ask about her bloodied hands where her fingernails had cut into her palms, or the latest, chilling rumour he’d heard about her family or the cruelty of other students, or why she winced slightly every time she moved a few weeks after she returned from the holidays.

Other times, she didn’t read properly for a very opposite reason.

A Spring’s day by the lake studying, or at least one of them, since Newt had long given up on concentrating on anything other than the beautiful girl beside him that he kept glancing over at every few minutes (not nearly as inconspicuously as he thought as her slightly amused smile playing at her lips would tell) as she read contently in the sun before she sighed boredly, tossed her novel aside and threw herself into him with such sweet, reckless abandon that the memory alone could steal the breath from his body.

He was not at all well versed in impressing a woman but wasn’t quite sure that was the best thing to tell Tina.

But he could still tell her the truth he believed most.

“I don’t really know what Leta likes these days…”

Did she still forgo sleep to soak up every drop of knowledge she could absorb at all hours of the night? No longer needing the secret candlelight to illuminate her pages and to not to alert her relentless household or her tired and grumpy dormitory.

Had the utilitarian clutches of adulthood finally captured her and left no time for reading by lakes or perched in trees reading to the Bowtruckles?

Did she eventually throw away the muggle stories that she had suffered so viciously for being found with?

Did she still read the books he kept finding in her possession, full of dark and experimental magic and history that surely weren’t even from the shelves of the Restricted Section?

“…because…people change.”

He wondered sometimes, tried to recall in his darkest hours if she had been holding any of those books – the questionable dark ones or the light-hearted muggles ones - on the last night he’d seen her.

He could recall the moment in painstaking detail but was so focused on searching her face, searching for the girl by the lake who climbed towers, ran away into forests teeming with creatures without a moment’s hesitation, could read to him in more languages he knew existed and could immerse herself so deeply into different worlds sometimes he was worried she’d float away entirely, that he didn’t take notice of anything around them such as the various titles of the books that slipped through her fingers and tumbled to the floor.

He searched. Desperately. He can’t find her. He can’t pull her out.

“I’ve changed.”

_“What are we going to do once we’ve read all of them?”_

“I think. Maybe a little.”

_“Write our own, of course.”_

 

**_Hiraeth – a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past._ **


	2. Sulit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rare moment of happiness between a young Leta and Credence.

 

The Lestrange residence was a grand, gloomy castle brimming with history, dark magic and power. Hidden by a thick forest and a number of somewhat cruel protective charms against unwelcome members of the community or unfortunate passer-by’s, the interior was as just as unwelcome and cold as the outside. With very few windows for such a large residence, the stone walls, archways and staircases were dimly lit with lanterns throughout even the sunniest of days. Ancient, emerald tapestries hung along the walls depicted the proud family’s heritage and history in exquisite detail along with portraits of notable ancestors and rows of mahogany bookcases with thousands of old texts. The atmosphere was macabre, daunting and even the more morally questionable wizards would get spine-chilling, heart-racing anxiety navigating the maze of wrought iron dungeons and endless hallways, heavy with curses and secrets.  

Even though the castle was haunting and chilling in feel and looked as if had been untouched for hundreds of years, it still held a semblance of opulence and magnificence. There was no dust, grime, spiderwebs or mildew. The arguably most powerful, formidable and richest wizarding family in Britain would hardly keep their family towers as old, slimy dungeons. Well, more so the team of house elves would keep every inch of mahogany polished, books and parchments free of dust, dark rugs kept meticulously clean, centuries old wrought iron without a touch of rust and every dim candle trimmed without a drop of wax on the floor.

Aside from the annual summer months that separated the school year (a period the household would dread), the only thing out of place in the grand abode was the curious, dark-haired baby, the youngest, most recent of many Corvus Lestranges’, that had recently and shakily developed the very new skill of taking a few steps (though was still far better and quicker at crawling) and had momentarily escaped the team of house elves that were tending to his basic needs and the housework. He scampered on tiny hands and knees across the dark rugs lining the way of the one hallway he’d managed to get up a few times before the grumpy house elves would retrieve him and place him back in the dark and melancholic nursery room. He stayed closer to the wall, to the faintly lit lanterns so he could see his goal – the staircase!

His dark brown eyes were set firmly on the fun looking set of winding stairs when a blur of light blue caught his attention, a foreign colour in the limited spectrum his world was decorated with. It was a person, taking the steps two at a time at a musical pace. It was not uncommon to see many strange and frightening people descend through the house, but he was intrigued by the hypnotic sway of the pale blue silk dress as the wearer thumped loudly and with purpose with a manner quite different to the gracefulness of her silk robes. She grabbed both of the railings carved serpent posts before lifting herself up on both arms and swinging a couple of times before letting her heeled school boots touch the floor.

“Leety! Leety!” the baby shrieked with uncharacteristic glee and scurried towards the girl who smiled just as uncharacteristically brightly and swung her satchel across her back to scoop the small boy up. He burrowed into her silky robes, nuzzling against the rare warmth and heartbeat of another human being and she squeezed him gently but securely enough that he felt safe and content for the first time since his mother had sent her away.

“You’ve gotten as fast and strong as a Pixie, Pipsqueak,” his sister proclaimed as she kept one hand on his back and used to other to loosen his arms slightly from around her neck, so he didn’t suffocate her. “Still look like a pudgy Puffskein in a wig though.” She pinched his rosy cheeks which he giggled at and showed her his tongue.

Her eyes widened in joy. “That’s right, Pipsqueak.”

She had drawn him beautiful illustrations of magical beasts for his dreary bedroom before she left (since removed, she suspected) and one of them was the furry, spherical Puffskein with a long pink tongue.

“To use for eating spiders and wizard bogeys,” she had told him when she showed him the pictures. He had looked up at her with big brown eyes and his tiny finger shoved up his nose. “Urgh, just like you.”

She couldn’t believe he had remembered. Though she wasn’t confident anyone had said any more than a few words to the boy in her absence.

“Miss Lestrange,” an old house elf looking especially grubby against the lavish surroundings interrupted the sibling’s reunion. “It is time for Master Corvus’ to break his fast.”

Leta’s joyful smile and bright eyes reserved only for her creatures and baby brother, disappeared in an instance and her carefully composed cold glare returned. She secured Pipsqueak on her hip and turned to the horrible house elf she had tried so hard to be kind to as a child and long given up on.

“Break his fast? Or break his neck?” she asked sardonically. “Is it toast with marmalade with a sippy cup of Skele-Gro to repair his spine after he falls down this ridiculous staircase?”

The baby in question was batting at his sisters matching blue hat with hungry eyes until she whipped it off and plonked it over his head while maintaining her ire with the house elf. 

“We have missed your colourful presence, Miss Lestrange,” Krewp the house elf said distastefully. “It will be a pleasure to serve you so much… _sooner_ than anticipated.” 

“You flatter me, Krewp. But don’t pop a bottle of fire-whiskey just yet. I’m sure there’s a large portion of the family fortune set aside specifically for bribing the next school I’ll be shipped off to by morning.”

“Krewp is unsure where Miss Lestrange is being sent next,” he glared pointedly at the soil her dirty, once very pretty shoes had trodden into the carpet and whispered to himself though loudly enough for her to hear: “We hope they have the resources to continuously upkeep their halls from the mud on her boots.”

“Oh yes, speaking of, where is step mummy-dearest?” she said looking as far down both ends of the hallway as the flickering light would allow. “Is she still hanging upside down from the rafters or has she descended for her breakfast of kittens and small children?”  

“Miss Lestranges’ tongue has not been tamed by the French school,” Krewp muttered again. “Mistress may cut it out. If only she cut off her hands and feet too, then the brat may not bring half the forest in with-”

“Don’t worry about it, Krewp. I’ll just follow the sound of rage and condemnation and find my way,” Leta said impatiently stepping around the house elf. “Besides, even though I’ve relieved you of your mediocre babysitting skills, I do seem to have made quite of a mess finding the right staircase that led to the one form of human life in this place so feel free to busy yourself with that. It provides a convenient set of directions to the darling Murtlap splashing about in his little aquarium bowl in the entrance hall that you can put by my bedroom door. He is beautiful, but he can give a nasty bite that can cause…well, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

Krewp muttered angrily under his breath before bowing dutifully. “Will Miss Lestrange be needing her owl brought to her chambers as well?”

Leta sighed in exasperation. “My _augurey_ arrived shortly before myself. And I have no need to keep him in a _cage_. He has the obedience of…well, certainly not myself,” she frowned slightly, as she watched the baby in her arms gnaw at the hat with all his strength.

“I trust nothing has been removed my supply? The bicorn horn? Mandrake root?” Leta asked.

“Miss Lestranges’…collection of pests has prevented any of the staff or family entering her disgraceful chambers.”

“Good, I think I will prepare a teething potion for _this_ little pest,” she thought as she wiggled her finger playfully at her brother who tried to bite at it gleefully.

“Probably why her robes are so dirty and dishevelled. Gallivanting in the woods like an animal collecting disgusting pests to bring into the noble castle of Lestrange-” Krewp said stomping down the stairs.

Leta smirked and continued on her way, thinking of how Krewp would have been a better Lestrange then herself and if her father and stepmother had considered stuffing him into a dress and passing him off as the scandalous smudge on their perfect, poisonous family tree.

She heard voices arguing in the third-floor dining hall, so she placed her brother on the floor of a nearby drawing room. He whined as soon as soon as his bottom touched the floor.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Pipsqueak,” she smiled and tossed him the hat. “Try and work your way through this until I’m back and then we’ll see what we can do about those upcoming fangs, huh?”

Making sure he was free from any harm a baby’s curiosity could invite, she closed the door over slightly and secured her satchel a little tighter and she walked towards the dining hall.

She had become desensitised to fear when it came to her family long ago. Physical and verbal attacks, beatings, confinement, and the occasional curse had become at most, wearily tiresome in their frequently.

She would joke that they were losing their touch to which she would dearly pay but it was worth it every time. She knew that they were aware she was becoming further out of their control each day which is one of the reasons she had been sent to Beauxbatons Academy for Magic.

The beautiful, grand chateau in Southern France was ostentatious in its magnificence but was still willing to accept a substantial amount of gold in exchange for admitting a student younger than the traditional enrolment age of most magic boarding schools.

Also, the fact that it was further away from the other magic schools meant her antics and attitude would bring embarrassment on her family name in front of a far less audience of pureblood wizarding heirs that they associated with.

Unfortunately for her, it did not work in her favour the opposite way. She suspected students from Castelobruxo to Uagadou to damn Ilvermorney were well informed of her family.  

But she had grown to not be afraid of the students who were not only older but immediately hostile as soon as her name was called off the parchment, just as she had grown to not be afraid of her legal guardians, or parents as she was often told to refer to them as. Well, one of them.

Though it didn’t mean she wanted her baby brother to be afraid. She wouldn’t show them this worry of hers as the only reason she suspected they didn’t throw him from a tower to punish her was that he was their only, respectable heir.

So, she would wash the blood from her face and become well practised in not wincing when he clambered on to her, wearing longer sleeves even when it was warmer (not often considering the constant chill through the castle) and keeping him well out of the way when there was potential for confrontation which was rather regularly.

She jauntily strolled into the opulent room to interrupt the hysterical woman.

“Bonjour père!” she announced cheerily to the man who had her back turned to her, watching the enormous fireplace as his wife stood nearby with her arms folded. Leta dumped her bag on the floor noisily and slumped into the chair at the head of the incredibly long mahogany table opposite the adults who were generating waves of fury.

Clarisse Lestrange, immaculately dressed with exquisite emerald jewellery and a bun tighter than the hold she wished to have ar0und the young girls neck, glared furiously and turned to her husband.

“I’ve corresponded to the headteacher herself, Corvus. I doubled then tripled the galleons you had offered for…previous incidents and they have made their position quite clear that no amount of gold would suffice having…,” she gestured in revolution in Leta’s general direction who was resting her ankles on the table edge and watching with mild amusement while deciding whether she could antagonise her father’s wife into acknowledging her today.

“This is the _second_ school that has expelled her, and she isn’t even of age to have bled yet-”

“Bled?!” Leta suddenly interjected with disgust and confusion.

“Trust me, Corvus. We must find a family desperate enough to rid her too once she’s able to child bear before she burns through every school on the continent and desecrates our name to the point where we not even the blood traitorous Weasley clan would have her.”

“Ever so classy, Clarisse. You have to spend your free time concerning yourself with my marital future because yours is so grim.”

“With any luck, whoever the unfortunate soul is might be able to teach her some discipline better than we have managed,” she smiled darkly for the first time since Leta stepped foot in her presence. “I swear the insolence of this impure brat casts a bad image on us all. And if she hasn’t tarnished our name enough at Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, she’s returned today of all days to embarrass us in front of our guests no doubt.”

“Yes, Clarisse. I released BB’s horribly mistreated Abraxans who were being slave-driven pulling those carriages without rest just so I could be thrown out again and walk two hours – yes thank you for forgetting to have me collected, father – back to this slimy dungeon just to enjoy the pleasure of you and your band of delightful serpents. If those periwinkle ditzy idiots weren’t starving those poor creatures and having them live off nothing but single malt whiskey-”

“Loleta,” Corvus finally whispered, closing his eyes and refusing to turn from the flames to look at his daughter.

“Corvus, we must prepare for the hunting day with the Sacred families this afternoon,” Clarisse said, annoyed that the girl’s presence had been acknowledged by her husband. “We will organise a place for the half-blood ignominy later. Hopefully one that will destroy the collection of vermin she carries with her upon arrival.”

“I feel sorry for the poor ambitious soul who tries,” Leta smiled slightly standing up from her chair. Clarisse knew she had touched a nerve but Leta could touch nerves too and far more devastatingly.

“No wonder she identifies better with those pests than people. I don’t know any decent, respecting wizard who could fraternise with such an ill-tempered, disrespectful, filthy half-blood-”

“Well, a decent, respecting wizard is a bit of a stretch, but I know that daddy dearest used to have an affinity for half-”

The jet of light hit her in the chest, violently sending her flying backwards and smashing into an ornate drinks cart.

“YOU WRETCHED, UNWORTHY, DISGUSTING GIRL! YOU SHOULD BE SO LUCKY THAT WE ALLOW YOU TO EXIST TO BESMIRCH OUR NAME. YOU MUST EXIST PURELY FROM THE REPULSIVE WOMAN WHO SPAWNED YOU. I DON’T BELIEVE THERE IS A SINGLE DROP OF LESTRANGE IN YOU-”

Corvus Lestrange finally turned around with a blank expression, while his wife screamed and threw curses, to see his firstborn on the floor among the splinters and shards, a deep, flowing slash across her chest staining her former schools uniform as she spat out a mouthful of blood and laughed in a way that was so darkly and undeniably Lestrange he knew his wife was dead wrong.   

**_Sulit – something that is worth it._ **

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for those who left kudos on the first chapter. I hope you enjoy my characterisation of Leta which I hope is a fresh and new take (although I have read some excellent stories involving her). Leta is already so hated and despised in the fandom for essentially being loved by Newt. We love our troubled, morally confused and tragic characters in the HP fandom so please give her a chance whether it’s through my story, another story, your own imagination or patience until the movie is released. After all, if Newt is still in love with her after all this time she must have been somewhat special. We will get to the other Fantastic Beasts gang eventually (I am hoping Leta and Tina are as adorable and hilarious in canon as they are in my head), but I really want to flesh out their Hogwarts years and hopefully set up an interesting story for you guys to enjoy. I’m a bit of a chatterbox so I’ll try and keep the notes short but thank you for the encouragement and readership!


	3. Amaranthine

A pair of purple-red dragonhide boots swiftly crunched through the misty glade in a quirky display amongst the figures donning dark black or green cloaks and shoes, snapping the branches that were rotting on the ancient forest floor.

The owner of the slightly eccentric boots breathed in heavily the woody, organic aroma of decaying pine, moist soil, decomposing leaves and the damp, indescribable scent of fog. It reminded him fleetingly of the inaccessible icy conifer forests he would see from his dormitory window that were separated from his school by mountains and lakes.

Far more beautiful and fresher he guessed than the uninviting and overcast thickets they had briefly strolled through. The iciness however was made up for in spades in the form of the pale, dark-haired man who walked beside him with one hand in his coat pocket and the other on the invisibly conjured lead of a furious jarvey.  

“I do apologise, Gellert,” Corvus Lestrange said as conversationally as his reserved and frosty presence would permit. “We always entertain our guests with a de-gnoming before a meeting. Our jarvey’s are the finest hunters, I have no idea where the gnomes have gotten to. Our grounds are usually teeming with the pests.”

Grindelwald smiled charmingly and brushed his blonde hair off his face in the wind, slightly amused by his own jarvey who was hissing angrily and spewing expletives as they walked back to the manor.

“Do not fret, Corvus, my friend. I wasn’t sure if I had the stomach for it anyway and would have been horrified to embarrass myself in front of the audience you’ve so generously provided me with.” 

Corvus glanced behind him at the precession of wizards following them through the eerie fog already discussing recent affairs and whispers.

“It would be disingenuous of me to say that we haven’t found your ideas eccentric in their nature, but our wife and I have been following and supporting your ambiguous ventures with keen interest for many years now and it only seems prudent that you’re invited to participate in our more intimate inner workings.”

“My ideas would be just that without your family’s extended participation and generosity. I could not have dreamed to develop them to fruition without your unique contributions,” Grindelwald said gratefully. “You’ve often said the only payment you require in return is the promise of the new world made possible by our developments, but I still feel indebted. I am eternally at both of your service if any area of assistance did arise.”

“Your contribution today would suffice enough, Gellert,” Corvus said. “I am not as artistic a wordsmith, very nearly ending some very sacred bloodlines through tedious speech alone so I am sure my associates would enjoy your particular brand of showmanship at our meetings. You’ve certainly gotten my wife enchanted and that is no easy feat.”

“Mrs Lestrange is a formidable beauty, indeed,” Grindelwald chuckled. “I feel fortunate that I have found myself in her favour.”

“Too right about that,” Corvus replied as both wizards drew their wands to create an invisible barrier above their heads to shield them from the rain that began to fall.

A small dot of vibrant colour against the foggy gloominess of the ancient trees and ferns drew Grindelwald’s pale blue eyes to a mossy spot on the edge of the glade where a leafy canopy sheltered what seemed at first glance to resemble an overgrown tea cosy in rainboots.

He narrowed his eyes and upon further inspection he found the small orange creature to be a young boy, a toddler at most, donned in a large knitted jumper that fell to the brim of his rubber boots and a matching bobbled hat that looked clumsily, though lovingly, handmade.

The older wizard turned to see what Grindelwald had paused to observe and his black eyes narrowed in confusion at the baby Corvus Lestrange clumsily balancing unaccompanied on shaky legs and uneven moss and twigs.

Grindelwald noticed how Corvus’ confusion suddenly hardened into concern and a touch of contempt. Following the man’s disdainful gaze, he found that the boy was not unaccompanied after all and was grasping two outstretched fingers trustfully. The small boy was letting out a stream of unintelligible, delightful gurgles.

His eyes trailed up to notice the young girl in a long dark green cloak, kneeling in the muddy grass by the edge of the forest and helping the small boy fasten the large wooden buttons on his coat while keeping the boy upright.

She was nearly completely camouflaged within the oak browns and deep emeralds of the misty wildwoods as if she were part of them – a woodland creature that crept along the edge of pine trees to assist in colourfully clad toddler’s mobility and attract the derisive glares of powerful pureblood wizards.

The young child’s gleeful chatter had started to draw the attention of the other wizards.

Corvus cleared his throat and motioned for Grindelwald to continue toward the stony façade of the east wing entrance where Clarisse Lestrange was waiting looking elegant and ever-lovely despite the pinched confusion upon her stern face at the clean, unbloodied mouths and claws of the restrained Jarveys the group were leading back.

“Your children?” Grindelwald enquired cheerfully and with thinly veiled curiosity.

Corvus maintained his hospitable composure but he sighed, and his voice dropped a fraction lower as they drew nearer to his wife.

“The house elves are supposed to care for the boy. I should probably attend to that before Clarisse finds out or the oncoming onslaught will be wearisome.”

Grindelwald smiled in response and glanced back to see both children had disappeared.

 

After the meeting, which Grindelwald sensed was a success judging by the enthusiastic handshakes of the Lestranges’ guests, he accepted a small glass of fine firewhisky offered by Clarisse Lestrange from the magically repaired antique drinks cart she had put Leta Lestrange through an hour prior.

“Mr Grindelwald, you had them hanging on to your every word,” she said tracing the lip of her own glass.

“They were an engaging audience,” he beamed. “Not often am I fortunate enough to share in the presence of such like-minded witches and wizards.” 

“We are very selective of the company that we keep, Mr Grindelwald,” Clarisse said but then her eyes distastefully followed a few wizards leaving the room. “Well, we do our best at least.”

“Gellert, please,” he said. “I am in your debt for the wonderful hospitality you and your husband have extended to me these years. First your generous offer in assisting with my…project…and now allowing me to recruit from within your private circles…. I am truly appreciative.”

Clarisse fiddled with the pearls strung across her thin neck. “I would say the pleasure has been all ours, Gellert, but I would be untruthful if I said that the former had not been…challenging.”

Gellert smiled and sipped his drink. “I do apologise that the efforts have proven to be more exhaustive than first anticipated and for my perceived lack of attention. Understandably, I have thought it wise to keep my distance before any progression can be seen.”

“Of course,” Clarisse agreed. “It wouldn’t be prudent to do otherwise. I only express my eagerness to see the end result of your work.”

“And for your stately manor to be free again from my developments?” Grindelwald smiled teasingly.

Clarisse laughed elegantly. “I could not lie to you, Gellert. Your work is inspired, and we feel honoured to provide you with what you require. But it has not been the most aesthetically pleasing, easily hidden project. Much effort has been put into making sure it goes undiscovered, so I will enjoy its absence as well as watching the uses you eventually put it to.”

“It will be a revolutionary weapon, Mrs Lestrange, and you and your husbands’ generous contributions to its creation will not go unremembered.”

Clarisse beamed and busied herself at the cart with pouring another few glasses as her husband and a couple of the more prominent wizards from the group joined them.

A short time later, Grindelwald bid a charming and appreciative farewell to the Lestranges’ and graciously refused their offers to walk him out. He exited the grand drawing room with Rosier and walked down the dark, dimly lit stone halls.  

“I think we’ve garnered more support after today,” Grindelwald commented. “And the Lestranges seem to be honouring their part with enthusiasm.”  

“You won’t find a family more passionate about your plight than they,” Rosier said glancing at the historical tapestries. “They are the most formidable of us all. If you have them in your corner, you’re untouchable. And if not, the worst enemy you could acquire. They are a valuable resource and if you have their support, they will not falter. They value purity and loyalty above all else…”

Grindelwald, who was already losing interest in Rosier’s words, had his focus drawn to the clumps of mud tarnishing the otherwise impeccable flooring. His pale eyes followed the trail until they were both interrupted by a snarling behind them.

A house elf was struggling to pull three furious jarvey’s on leads to the dungeons where they were stored. One bit through the lead with bared teeth and bounded snarling and hissing between Grindelwald and Rosier to the now visible toddler crawling around at the end of the hallway.

Rosier whipped out his wand to aim at the jarvey when a swish of green separated the angry creature from the boy. The girl in the green cloak caught the jarvey against her chest like a Bludger, nearly losing her balance with the force but managed to catch herself and stand up, turning her back to Rosier to prevent him from firing a curse or willing to take the hit for the creature.

“Now, now. That’s enough,” she said both sternly and softly, holding the enraged creature firmly enough against her chest that it couldn’t snap at her and instead settled for letting out a stream of curse words. “I said that’s enough.”

To Grindelwald’s surprise, the jarvey, albeit grumpy, calmed down and allowed itself to be cradled by the girl who now had the young boy clinging to her leg mesmerised by the silky blue material of her skirt.

“Is that the girl?” Grindelwald asked Rosier quietly who nodded in obvious distaste.

“Caused quite the scandal as you could imagine,” Rosier said.  

“Yes, I heard about the mother.”

“You would think that was the worst of it,” Rosier told him, following him down the staircase. “The girl isn’t right.”

“She’s the same age as your girl?” Grindelwald enquired curiously, remembering the small talk during the failed de-gnoming. “They attend school together?”

“Yes, a year or so difference. They’re technically cousins – not to advertise that fact. But they don’t go to the same school,” Rosier explained. “They’ve been paying off other region schools to admit her, but she’s been thrown out twice now. She was in the Book of Admittance at Hogwarts at birth, but they’ve tried to avoid attracting any unnecessary attention by paying off international schools to admit her though she’s been thrown out twice now. Soon, they’ll have to roll the dice as far as Ilvermorney and work their way through the continents until she becomes of age if there are any schools left.”

“I suppose there are some children not suited to traditional schooling,” Grindelwald mused thinking of his own experience.

“If I was that girl, I would do well to stay as long as possible in any school. Girl gets in more trouble out of school than in it if you could believe. She was a bloody mess within her first five minutes back.”

“Clumsy little thing?”

“Rebellious would be the nicest term I’ve heard used. They were practically scraping her off the floor when I arrived and that was one of the nicer scenes I’ve witnessed by Clarisse’s standards. Not that anyone could blame her. If the scandalous birth circumstances and unruly attitude weren’t insufferable enough, that kind of blood impurity is intolerable in the Lestrange family. We’ve all got our skeletons and indiscretions of course, but unfortunately, they don’t usually walk around with your last name attached and Chizpurfle’s and Runespoor eggs in their pockets.”

“Runespoors?” Grindelwald raised his eyebrows, impressed.

Rosier nodded. “It seems the harder the Lestranges’ go, the harder she goes. Soon they will be shipping her to school in separate pieces. Though she’d clandestinely be put in a cardboard box under the ground somewhere in the forest long ago if they didn’t have to save her for later. It’s what most people urged Corvus to do when all this mess started before other options were presented.”

A chill passed through Grindelwald suddenly and he glanced around.

“Pay it no mind, Mr Grindelwald,” Rosier told him. “It’s only the protective curses going back up. They disable them occasionally for meetings.” 

“They are very thorough,” Grindelwald mused. “What are the preventative measures against?”

“Well, muggles, of course, that one is always up. Mudbloods, halfbloods, blood traitors and specific persons. Different curses and different penalties for each kind. Some of the curses are worse than others.”

“Yes, I do remember now Fawley telling me…”

They heard a crash and shouting followed by the much closer sound of the young girl passing the two men on the stairs in haste, completely unbothered by their presence and the jarvey now snoring in the crook of her arm and her younger brother in the other.

Rosier physically recoiled in disgust as she passed them. Grindelwald watched in curiosity as the girl quickly rearranged her cargo to wrap her hand in her cloak and open the front door handle, leaving the doors wide open as the odd trio departed.

The two men descended from the staircase and stood in the grand and dark entranceway. Grindelwald saw the girl some distance away trying to physically throw the jarvey a foot in front of her in a futile attempt to get it to run away but the creature, now seemingly fond of her, kept running back like it was a game.

Even from where he was standing, Grindelwald could clearly see her silently mouth a word in frustration that he’d never seen form from the mouth of an upper-class society girl before as she balanced her brother on one hip and stuffed the jarvey into her pocket which appeared to be enchanted as any trace of the beast disappeared entirely.

“Mr Rosier, would you mind if we parted ways prematurely? I just have some quick business to attend to before I apparate.”

“Not at all,” Rosier said shaking hands with the young wizard and bidding him farewell before apparating with an audible crack.

He then turned his attention to the young girl who seemed to be deep in thought, bouncing the young toddler up and down as she decided which direction to escape in.

Grindelwald picked out a particularly charming smile as he strolled with his hands behind his back to the children. She looked up at him as she heard him tread across the ground towards them – two startled amber doe-eyes inset into a tawny love-heart shaped face – and spun around to walk to the far more desirable thicket of woods.

“Hello there,” he greeted pleasantly stopping at a non-threatening distance. The girl glanced back, her former surprise completely hidden and replaced with annoyance and suspicion and showing no sign of vulnerability despite reminding Grindelwald of a startled fawn.

The toddler on her hip kicked at her legs, eagerly pointing to the trees with a chubby finger and gurgling somewhat impatiently. She turned back to continue walking and Grindelwald noticed how she discreetly tucked a wayward curl of dark hair behind her ear to better hear if he decided to follow them.

“Excuse me,” he called politely and cheerfully. “Little Lestrangelings’?”

She stopped and seemed to ready herself before turning around slowly and placing her brother on the ground without taking her scrutinising eyes off the young wizard.  She moved casually but with such careful consideration when she stepped slightly before the little boy that Grindelwald could notice she was obscuring the boy from him.  

“That was a very impressive display with the jarvey,” he commented. “Cheeky little blighters I remember them to be. I nearly lost a few fingers in my experience with them.”

His chuckle was not met with any change in expression from the stony-faced girl looking every bit the emotionless Lestrange despite her differences in appearance to the rest of the family.

He cleared his throat feeling unfamiliarly awkward but not letting the wisp of a girl throw him no matter how immune to his universal charisma she may be.

“Are you talented with all manner of creatures or are jarvey’s your speciality?”

She said nothing.

“You’ve lost the ability to talk, little Lestrangeling?” he chuckled, and she stared before shrugging slightly with an air of obviousness.

She looked unsure whether he was taunting her or simply dim.

“Oh,” Grindelwald exclaimed in sudden understanding. “Forgive me, I had forgotten your family’s…house rules.”

He moved forward slightly, and she didn’t step back, but her hand moved closer to her pocket. Grindelwald held up his wand in surrender.

“Don’t fret, little fawn,” he chuckled and wordlessly waved his wand to temporarily remove the silencing charm. She touched her throat lightly and looked at him as if he were mad or suicidal.

 “L…Leta?” he remembered from many years ago. “That’s what they call you, right?”

“Not very often,” she answered him quietly. “But yes, among other things.”

“Is that short for something?” he asked conversationally enjoying her look of bewilderment.

“Yes.”

Grindelwald smirked. “I would have thought a girl who lives in a house where she can’t speak would have blabbered endlessly.”

“I…. don’t have much to say.”

“Now that I don’t quite believe,” he smiled and put his wand away. “From what I hear you’re regarded as rather troublesome.”

Leta glanced at the sky before retrieving the toddler that had given up and decided to slowly crawl towards the trees on his own. “I didn’t know I had done anything of interest enough to warrant such infamy. Let alone my very own topic of discussion with the diabolical brunch bunch, I suppose I should feel honoured.” 

Grindelwald grinned at her change in attitude and followed behind them.

 “I never said you were a topic of discussion.”

“You don’t need to,” she said. “We don’t seem to share the same infamy as you seem to know who I am, but I don’t know who you are. You’ve met my family before but…not here. This is your first time.” It wasn’t a question.

“Gellert Grindelwald, my lady,” he smiled at her. “You seem indisputably sure of your information.”

“Just paying attention. Besides, you’re talking to me so…”

She glanced back at the manor.

“…you’ve heard enough of me to approach me but not enough to have known better.”

“That’s a very intimidating sentiment from a girl who looks as threatening as a startled fawn,” he chuckled.

A tiny smile played on Leta’s lips before she turned to finally face Grindelwald, a challenging glint in her copper coloured eyes that Grindelwald was excited to have ignited.

He then noticed the jagged slashes and grazes that adorned her youthful face and exposed hands. “Perhaps. But your kind seem particularly threatened by my kind.”

“Your kind?” he asked curiously.

She gave a scornful half-smile. “ _Filthy_.”

Grindelwald smiled back in complete knowledge that she was trying to see if she could antagonise him. He looked at the girl’s earth trodden Beauxbatons uniform under her cloak.

“Indeed,” he joked.

“As much as they polish every slimy stone and speck of silverware in that place I don’t think the silencing charm and scorching doorknobs are in place to deter the dishevelled. Although, I wouldn’t vocalise that thought. I feel like that is a suggestion that would pique their interest.”    

“You must enjoy the reprieve of those meetings then,” Grindelwald mused. “When they disable those curses.”

“I enjoy the hypocrisy, Mr Grindelwald,” she smiled sweetly or mockingly, Grindelwald couldn’t tell. “The halfblood curses are only disabled as to not embarrass the slightly _impure_ dark wizards who Corvus and Clarisse need for their wealth, support or influence. Such a penance for those who don’t desire to procreate with their cousins.”

Grindelwald was taken aback and admittedly impressed with her audaciousness. He thought it was twistedly lucky that she was cursed with a silencing charm in that household or she would be far more battered than she already was.

She just smirked at his surprised blinking, seemingly satisfied with her work and continued walking with her brother. But Grindelwald persisted at the mercy of his curiosity.

“I can see how your opinions would make you an oddity here, young Lestrangeling,” he said walking with his hands behind his back alongside the siblings. “Was it your candour that had you sent home early from school?”

“Sent home early and permanently,” she corrected in a manner that nearly reflected pride and amusement. “Apparently I wasn’t the right fit for the _Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons_.”

“Is that so?”

“In many ways I’m not befitting of a Beauxbaton’s lady. I think my father over time ended up funding an entire new tower and courtyard to the Palace to sway their minds. Apparently though there was a limit to the Leta Lestrange rehabilitation and relocation fund. In France, anyway.”

“What was that limit?”

“A slight disagreement involving some Abraxan’s,” she said with bitterness. 

Grindelwald pondered on his own expulsion. “That hardly seems reasonable grounds to be expelled.”

“The cumulative effect of many seemingly small actions,” Leta shrugged, unfazed by her academic reputation thus far. “I was never great at rolling my ‘r’s, it’s a tad too warm a climate for me, and there’s something unpleasant to be said about silk,” she toyed with the blue skirt of her uniform. “I won’t lose sleep over it. Maybe over the treatment of those horses but that would be the extent of it.”

“I, myself, was expelled from Durmstrang in my sixth year,” Grindelwald told her in a reminiscent tone.

Leta scoffed, unimpressed. “They lasted three months before sending me away.”

Grindelwald raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“It was a commendable effort on their part, I will say.”

“I remember Durmstrang as being rather known for their unique tolerance and lenience towards the more…unprincipled practises.”

“I don’t involve myself in the Dark Arts, Mr Grindelwald, if that’s what you’re suggesting” Leta snapped haughtily, holding the toddler closer. “It was more so my aversion to them and my ghastly opinions that you say I have amassed some kind of reputation over that deemed me too abnormal for such a _respectable_ institution.”   

“Whatever the reason…” Grindelwald started in an attempt to find his way out of the young girl’s contempt which he had unexpectedly and suddenly fallen into. “…it is a shame. You have a remarkable talent with those jarvey’s. You never did answer before, are you skilled with all manner of beasts?”

“Certainly not humans,” she muttered stepping over a large branch.

“You consider people to be beasts?” Grindelwald asked.

“I suppose not, they’re hardly interesting enough. More vicious and deceitful than any creature I’ve encountered though.”

He noticed how she walked rather strangely. One foot carefully in front of the other and occasionally on an odd angle as if not to disturb her surroundings in any way.

“In hindsight, I’ve always harboured more affection towards animals than people also,” Grindelwald told her.

Leta had a sceptical, dark smile. “Have you lured me out here, Mr Grindelwald, to fashion me into a handbag then?”

“Excuse me?” Grindelwald exclaimed, absolutely perplexed.

“Well, if you wear the creatures you so admire as shoes I do wonder what you would do to the creatures you feel less affection for,” she expressed in the direction of his feet.

Grindelwald glanced down at his boots and met her with a smile which she did not return. “You have a good eye. You’re a fan of leatherwork?

“Yes,” she replied without missing a beat. “More of a fan when it’s left _on_ a Peruvian Vipertooth.”

“You live by a very strict set of morals, don’t you Miss Lestrange?”

“I’ve been told my morals tend to be my weaker point,” she said. “They never seem to…align correctly.”

“It can be confusing to work out but once you figure out the natural order of things, it’s easy to live by,” Grindelwald explained and Leta stiffened somewhat defiantly.

“I’m not confused in the slightest. I’ve been taught of this _natural order_ from before I can remember. I know where I, and other members of the magical and nonmagical community, place in popular opinion.”

“I thought we were having a discussion about beasts?” Grindelwald said kindly. Building a rapport with the girl would be made difficult tenfold if they got into the business of debating not only blood purity but _muggles_ of all things.

“I’m sorry,” Leta apologised. “You’re trying, and struggling, to find common ground in which to forge some kind of affinity with me. One of my father’s favourite plays though he tends to put a little more forethought into research. Please continue.”

Grindelwald chuckled at her attitude but decided to continue nevertheless.

“You seem to oppose the human utilisation of dragons, and jarveys, and…abraxans. But you’re not opposed to interfering with the natural order of other beings.”

“Excuse me?” she enquired, being the confused one for a change.

“You’re covered in dirt and scratches and your father was particularly befuddled by the complete absence of gnomes on your property.”

She didn’t respond so he pressed further.

“I have only had the pleasure of your unique presence for a few moments, but it does seem to be in your odd nature to stage a hasty de-gnoming. I wouldn’t put it past you in the least to have done so out of pure spite, but I predict your thorny façade hides a soft fondness for those funny little pests. It must be challenging loving both the predator and the prey…”

“Gnomes are not jarvey’s prey,” Leta snapped glaringly. “De-gnoming by jarvey is an outdated, cruel form of entertainment designed by wizards. It’s unnecessarily cruel!”

“Unnecessarily cruel?” Grindelwald repeated. “Jarvey’s are vicious by nature.”

Leta’s hand defensively brushed against her pocket. “Nothing is vicious by nature.”

Grindelwald stopped in his tracks. “Not even people?”

Leta paused and turned to the jolly young man. She opened her mouth slightly and closed it again.

“Ah, the counter curse is wearing off,” Grindelwald observed, stuffing his hand in his robe pocket and rocking back and forth on his offending boots. “Just in the nick of time for the intrepid Miss Lestrange wh0 wrangles jarvey’s and dreams of dragons to get out of admitting what really scares her is the humble human being.”

“I’m not scared!” she managed to force out. He was impressed by her sheer force of will against the looming silencing curse. There was no denying she was brimming with untapped power and talent but in that moment, she sounded more like a child than ever.

“Fear isn’t a curse, little Lestrangeling,” Grindelwald told her with a sly smile. “It’s the most powerful motivator. It keeps us attentive. It protects us. It stops us from doing things we shouldn’t be. From talking to people we shouldn’t be. You should listen to your fear a little more assiduously.”

Her lovely features didn’t twist out of passive indifference, but she angled the small boy further back. He was certain if she were able to talk, there would have been a comment to accompany the defensive attitude.

“It seems especially cruel to continue our walk with only one half of the conversation to sustain us,” Grindelwald remarked staring up at the sky which was starting to fill with grey clouds again. “I won’t keep you both from your outing any longer, Lestranges’, but it has been most intriguing. I’m most curious to see how you turn out in a few years’ time, hopefully in a school that _fits_.”

He held out his hand but withdrew it a second later when Leta stared suspiciously.

Grindelwald instead bowed slightly with a friendly smile before turning his back on the Lestrange children and strolling away to apparate.

Leta made a funny face at her brother, with whom she had learned to communicate with wordlessly, and he burst out in laughter.

She brought her finger up to her lips to quieten him and pointed to a familiar tree where some bowtruckles emerged slowly and curiously. Naturally, they were extremely shy and nearly impossible to spot but they always came out for Leta.

The baby Corvus Lestrange pressed his mouth into a thin line in concentration to prevent himself from yelling out in delight as the bowtruckles ran up Leta’s arm. They started searching her robes for wood lice and other treats she was known to carry. One searched her ear, getting dangerously close to the overexcited toddler. Leta luckily grabbed his chubby wrist with gentle disapproval in time.

He was distracted by a family of Clabberts that descended the branches of a nearby tree and wandered hesitantly over to the pair. He looked at his sister with uncertainty, but she smiled encouragingly and placed him on the ground. The small, monkey-like creatures prodded the small child curiously. One of the baby Clabberts’ examined a tuft of his dark hair to Leta’s amusement until the bowtruckles became jealous and started climbing in her hair.

A curious gurgle from her brother drew Leta’s attention back down and she saw the large pustules on the Clabbert’s heads each turn red in turn and start to flash, sensing danger. She tried to move around as slowly as possible to not worry her little brother or the bowtruckles that were covering one side of her body.

She heard a crack of branches and an impending sense of panic flooded her chest. She had memorised every single sound in this forest and she knew something was out of place. She felt foolish for not having made sure Grindelwald did apparate after antagonising him for so long.

Her hand slowly reached up under her hood to where her wand was speared through a loose bun in her hair.

A few tense moments passed and although she didn’t hear any noises indicating the intruding creature had moved away, she didn’t hear any other noises either.

“ _Ribbert_ ,” one of the clabberts croaked and she noticed that their pustules had stopped flashing warningly.

Corvus stared up at her with dark brown eyes full of trust and wonder, checking in to make sure they were safe, as he always would. Leta smiled reassuringly, as she, too, always would.

Back up at the manor, the older Corvus Lestrange was staring out the third-floor window thoughtfully, still cradling the drink he had poured with Grindelwald. He was staring into the patch of trees he had seen Grindelwald follow his children into.

A more sentimental man would have been concerned, especially with Grindelwald’s distaste for impurity, but Corvus knew his eldest child was far too valuable to his companions to come to any permanent harm.

He was, however, concerned about his daughter’s increasingly limited education options. Keeping any focus off her was becoming increasingly difficult the quicker she burned through Europe’s wizardry schools.  

He was pondering how quickly he could get an owl to Brazil to see what their prospects at Castelobruxo could be when his wife approached him with a frown and a piece of parchment in hand.

“Who is Albus Dumbledore?”

**_Amaranthine –_ **

  1. **_Unfading; everlasting._**
  2. **_A deep purple-red._**



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the Hogwarts Express chapter planned next but decided to give a little more backstory to the Lestranges’ to save time in future chapters and to introduce Grindelwald. Plus, it seems only fair to sneak in a few rare happy moments for baby Corvus/Credence whenever possible. But next chapter is all Newt. Thanks so much to everyone who has read and left kudos.


	4. L'esprit de l'escalier

“Quickly now, quickly!” Anemone Scamander called out while clapping and herding her two sons through the crowded Kings Cross Station with skill acquired from years of breeding and rearing Hippogriffs.

“Newt, dear, you first, go, go!” she shouted as they made their way between Platforms 9 and 10. 

Her youngest child’s sweaty fingers gripped on to the handle of his trolley, turning his knuckles white, as he started to run toward the barrier urged on by his mother, the large clock overhead that practically screamed how late he had made them, and the wheels of his brother’s own trolley that he could hear squealing behind him.

Just as he prepared to disappear through the barrier, he squeezed his eyes shut and stopped in his tracks, his knees buckling uncomfortably, and his trolley swung to the side to his cat’s dismay by the sound of her yowl.

Theseus let out a combination of a shriek and a curse word and flipped over his handlebar in a noble attempt to stop his trolley colliding with his suddenly stationary little brother.

He landed with a bang on his suitcase and the trolley wheeled him through to the platform unceremoniously.

“Newt! What are you doing?” his mother rushed over and pulled him through the platform with her.

“I…I don’t f-feel very well,” Newt stammered, his breathing unsteady and his voice croaky from disuse. 

He hadn’t spoken a word since breakfast time and the panic that blossomed across his stomach like a wound had been pulsing through him since he woke up that morning with dread in his heart.

He had sat in silence for the entire trip to Kings Cross Station, wrestling with the thought of another year of isolation and torment.

It was only when he was immediately faced with crossing over to the platform that the desperation took over.

Mrs Scamander looked at her youngest child with pity and sadness but smiled all the same, stroking the auburn hair he had gotten from her.

The sweater she had made him (it was only the first day into Autumn, but he always felt the cold) was thick and cosy but even she could see his chest rising and falling a little too rapidly as he held his cat, that he had quickly bundled out of its cage, a little tighter to his chest.

“Your father and I will write all the time, dear,” she told him. “And before you know it, it will be Christmas break…”

Newt tried to stop himself from shuddering and concentrate on his mother but all he could hear was the loud noise of hundreds of students screaming and shouting, luggage being thumped to the ground and whistles blowing.

Theseus didn’t seem to have suffered socially from his ungraceful entrance owing to the girls leaning out of the train and whispering and giggling to each other as he threw his and Newt’s suitcases with ease over to his friends who were on the train.

“I-I can do my work from home. Maybe you…you can write and ask Professor Dippet. I promise I’ll pay attention– not like the holidays – I won’t go wandering off or, or anything.”

Mrs Scamander hugged her poor, hopeful boy to her as tightly as the grumpy cat, Albertyne, in between them would permit.

“Everything I-I need…I can learn it from books. We’ve already bought all my textbooks and…”

“You can’t learn everything from books, my love. You need people too, my dear, people who can fill your heart…”

“Nobody here,” he said with certainty, his whole body defeated in a way that was beyond his twelve years.

She glanced sadly up at the groups of teenagers excitedly buzzing about the new year and shoving each other playfully as they started to hop on to the train. There wasn’t a single stray soul besides her Newt.

A group of tall, rowdy Gryffindors were leaning against the train, and some hanging out the windows, waiting for Theseus. 

“You certainly won’t find anyone if you stay hidden.”

He didn’t look convinced as he scrunched his face.

“But maybe they’ll be good at finding things…a bit like you,” she smiled sadly.

As much as he didn’t want to go (and had very little interest in making friends despite his family’s insistence on the matter), he hated to see his mother so concerned and tried his best at a small, half-hearted smile to ease her worry.

His family, the hippogriffs and the small assortment of magical creatures that wandered into their field filled his heart well enough.

Anything his mother thought he was missing out on, it wasn’t at Hogwarts. He was in the friendship house and couldn’t find a friend.

She bopped his freckled nose with her finger, entirely unconvinced by his performance.

“Fill that beautiful mind of yours with as much as you can and tell me all about it in your letters.”

“I will,” he promised, resigning himself to another inevitable year of loneliness and homesickness as his mother hugged him tightly.

She kissed his forehead and stood up and did the same to her eldest son who jumped back in bewilderment as if she had struck him instead.

“Good lord mother, what are you doing?” he said mortified, looking around and fixing the single dark curl that draped neatly across his forehead.

“Oh, Theseus,” she shook her head and smoothed down his robes before fixing his prefect badge. “Your father and I are so proud of you, my boy. How have you grown so much?”

“Running, Quidditch, and carrying this family mainly,” he joked as the final whistle blew. 

“…sometimes literally,” he added hoisting Newt – cat in tow - under one arm and grabbed both of their carry bags with the other.

“Have a wonderful term!” she called to them as Theseus jumped on to the train which was already starting to move. “And write soon, and Theseus make sure-”

“He’ll be fine, Mother,” Theseus assured her as she picked up her pace to match the slowly departing train. “I’ll write once we arrive.”

His mother looked at him doubtfully.

“Hey! I will,” he chuckled placing his brother back on his feet who waved weakly to his mother with one arm still clutched around his pet.

“Newt, dear, try to…”

The chugging of the train starting to create momentum on the tracks drowned out her words as they pulled out of the station.

“Come, Newt,” Theseus said cheerfully.

Newt supposed he should feel grateful and relieved that Theseus insisted on Newt sitting with his friends again for the journey.

His first year was at their mother’s insistence but Newt suspected Theseus wouldn’t have left his side anyway.

He was sure it wouldn’t have done Theseus any favours having his weird little brother trailing along behind him so frequently but then again, nobody seemed to give Theseus any trouble.

But part of him just wanted to find an empty space to crawl into and play with Albertyne and wait out the ten-hour journey. 

“Second year now, Newt!” Theseus clapped him on the shoulder as they squeezed past a group of Ravenclaws that were greeting each other in the walkway.

“I didn’t say in front of Mum of course, but I spoke to Father about getting you your own racing broom now you’re allowed one of your own. He agreed eventually, provided you’re not unsupervised and it doesn’t affect your schoolwork, of course, and gave me the gold before he left for the Ministry this morning. I know you’re supposed to be third year to visit Hogsmeade but I’m going to ask Professor Broadbunch if I can bring you along on the next trip and we’ll pick one out.”

“You don’t have to do that, Thees,” Newt said feebly, trying to imagine Theseus animatedly trying to pitch the idea of Newt suspended thirty feet on a strip of wood to his understandably hesitant father.

“Nonsense,” Theseus waved him off. “What kind of brother would I be if I allowed you to learn the art of flying on one of those school-issued bundles of twigs? Besides, I need to pay a visit to Hogsmeade anyway and replace my Keeper gloves you creatively discovered doubled as Ashwinder egg mitts. Hopefully there’s a trip scheduled before try-outs…”

“N-no one is as good as you,” Newt said with certainty.

He wasn’t flattering Theseus – he certainly wasn’t lacking for validation. Newt only watched, from a distance, the Quidditch games that Gryffindor were playing but even so, he thought that Theseus was the best player at Hogwarts. He highly doubted a newcomer could knock Theseus from his well-maintained Keeper’s perch – even with ruined Keeper gloves.

“You could, you could…play professionally,” Newt thought out loud. “I-Imagine all the places you could, could travel, all the things you could see when you weren’t p-playing. Wouldn’t that be…”

“Oh no, Newt,” Theseus chuckled. “I’ll play for Gryffindor till I graduate. Then I’m going straight into Auror training. Maybe work with Father while I do so. Pave the way for you. Imagine it, Newt. Us working at the Ministry together. It would be cracking.”

“I-I guess so.”

Theseus led them to a compartment over-stuffed with a bunch of Gryffindors who whooped loudly when they came in.

After a bit of rearranging which included two sitting cross legged on the floor and one of the Gryffindor Beaters perched up in the bag racks, Newt was squeezed uncomfortably next to Theseus who was deep in discussion with his friends. He was just thankful he was next to the window and could rest his forehead against the cold glass.

“I need to go do my rounds,” Theseus turned to Newt, snapping him out of his reverie.

The Gryffindors jeered and teased Theseus about being a Prefect but he smiled and slapped them across the head as he climbed out of the compartment.

“Back in a bit,” he said, mainly to Newt, and then looked rather warningly to a few of his friends before joining a rather impatient looking female Prefect waiting in the walkway.

One of Theseus’ friends seated opposite Newt straightened up and cleared his throat.

“So, urgh, Newton, right? You, err, you looking forward to school?”  

Newt nodded politely and deep down, cursing Theseus for orchestrating what appeared to be the beginning of an unbearably painful exchange on both ends.

“Do you…have a favourite…class?” the boy pressed out of obligation. 

Newt bit his lip nervously, trying to remember all the seven core subjects he studied in first year.

He supposed it should be Charms. He didn’t excel especially in any of his classes, but Charms would be his best subject. He could be quite handy with charms, but he didn’t find the class or the work itself overwhelmingly enjoyable.

“Um…Transf-figuration?” Newt replied hesitantly hoping that was an acceptable answer.

His favourite parts of school weren’t in the classes at all, but Transfiguration could be quite nice. Professor Dumbledore was always very patient and kind to him. He’d also flicked through this year’s textbook and saw they would be covering trans-species transfiguration.

“If only your big bro felt the same way,” the boy lying across the bag rack laughed. “Poor bugger has to get at least an Exceeds Expectations in his Transfiguration O.W.L’s. Couldn’t imagine putting myself through that.”

“He’s going to be an Auror, Bellamy,” one of the girls said teasingly. “We can’t all sell parchment in our granddad’s shop for a living. We save those jobs for those who have taken one too many Bludgers to the skull.”  

“Just think, Hunter,” he retorted back cheerfully. “If you become an Auror too, I could get a job mopping up the trail of drool you leave behind following after Scamander.”

She sent a spell flying upwards that shook the rack to the Beater’s intense fear and dismay. 

“I always liked third year,” a girl that Newt recognised from Theseus’ Quidditch team said to him, ignoring the ensuing fight that had developed opposite them.

“You get to pick a couple of electives. You can’t drop any of the core seven so it’s a bit more work but at least you get a little more of a say in what you want to do. I think I did Divination and Ancient Runes. Yeah, that sounds right. Your brother did Runes too.”

“And A-Arithmancy,” Newt added, somewhat distastefully. He had seen the Arithmancy homework spilling over Theseus desk over the holidays and couldn’t imagine a more intimidating subject. 

The girl chuckled. “Yeah, too many numbers for me. What do you reckon you’ll pick?”

“I, um, I d-don’t know. I-I thought maybe M-muggle Studies?” he said quietly, twisting his fingers into his jumper. 

“Huh, okay, well, an easy pass at least,” she shrugged, a little surprised at his seemingly unambitious choice. “You’ve got a whole year to decide.”

He just nodded again feebly and hoped that Theseus had nearly finished.

“Neat cat,” said the girl who Newt remembered had been called Hunter though he wasn’t sure if that was her first or last name.

“T-thanks,” he said hugging Albertyne close. “Her name is, um, Albertyne. They thought s-she was a boy to start with, so…so she was called Albert. She-she didn’t let a-anyone touch her, so they couldn’t check but she, she liked me, so I got to keep her, and I found out she was a-a girl. I think it’s nice though because it - Albertyne - means ‘intellegent’, so I think that’s…n-nice. She’s very smart. She’s part Kneazle…well, I-I think.”

The group just stared at him and he blushed profusely, digging his fingernails into his palms. He knew his speech propelled between struggling to get a word out and speaking so fast his words mixed together and in his momentary excitement he had let out a stream of what he could only imagine was a garbled mess. 

“What’s a Kneazle?” the Beater hanging above them asked after enough time had passed to render the environment officially uncomfortable.

“A bigger cat,” someone answered him boredly flipping through a copy of _Which Broomstick_ , and Newt sunk a little further back into the seat. He had a feeling that his knowledge that Kneazles had different fur, ears, tails and temperament to cats was better kept inside his head. 

As they resumed their rowdy chatter, Newt shifted to move from his seat. The noise of it all was starting to collide together causing his head to throb and his vision to tilt no matter how much he closed his eyes or tried to focus on the countryside flying past outside the window.

“Where are you off to?” enquired one of the designated babysitters Theseus had assigned in his short absence.

“J-just to get Albertyne a-a drink,” Newt stuttered.

Apparently, this was deemed an acceptable request as a couple of them shrugged at each other and the rest looked relieved like they had been holding their breath during their short, attempted entertaining of the young boy.

“There’s a water fountain at the end of the train,” the girl on Theseus’ Quidditch team said kindly. “Otherwise you could find the trolley witch?”

Newt nodded appreciatively, put his bag strap over his shoulder and carefully stepped past them all to get to the walkway.

He figured he may as well go along with this story and fetch Albertyne some water. They were sitting near the furthest end of the train, so Newt figured it would be some time before the trolley witch would make her rounds in this carriage. 

He headed in the direction of the water fountain, one arm carrying Albertyne while his other hand rummaged in his bag for the little wooden bowl he carried on him.

Distracted, he was very nearly floored by two Slytherin fourth years who didn’t even waste the time to push him aside and instead just walked straight into him as though he were non-existent. The force of the much bigger student’s torso knocked him flat against the closed door of a compartment, making the glass shake in its panes.

Newt waited, slumped against the bottom of the door for a small while, clutching Albertyne with his eyes pressed tightly closed as he heard a few more students walk past him, thankfully, without notice.

On shaky legs he walked quickly, keeping his eyes down and his body as close to one side of the walkway as possible as he reached the magical water fountain that neatly filled his bowl.

He was grateful that there were no waiting students behind him to hear him automatically thank the inanimate fountain.  

It was only on his way back down the corridor that he had realised he would have to walk past where the elite and particularly cruel Slytherins sat.

In his haste to keep his head down and get to the end of the train, he had not noticed (and luckily neither had they) that he had wandered through what was unofficially, though very much forcefully deemed, strictly Slytherin territory.

The only House he had heard of that sauntered confidently through this section were Gryffindors who usually did so in a deliberate effort to incite something. He remembered Theseus and his friends had gotten into a fight with the Slytherin Quidditch team here in their third year. 

Thankful that he had yet to change into his Hufflepuff robes but entirely aware that he positively embodied the yellow and black, he mapped out where he knew the worst of them would be.

If he hadn’t been placed behind Theseus’ metaphorical shield, he thought that he might have been more terrified of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws than the Slytherins. Some Slytherins could be very unkind but mostly they seemed to keep to themselves. He even admired some of their core values.

But none of the bad seeds in the other Houses combined could measure up to the well-known, vicious bunch of Slytherins that came from the family’s he had heard his father talk about over dinner, much to his mothers’ displeasure. It wouldn’t be icy glares or cool indifference he would receive as much as hexes and dark curses from that group.

He was best calculating his chances of slipping by unnoticed when he saw a spine-chilling sight ahead. Caecilius Lestrange, Vinda Rosier and Castor Black were marching down the walkway looking as ferocious as ever.

They weren’t in their usual space. With his heart fluttering in panic, he slipped into the doorway of an open compartment to hide.  

A sudden mournful cry from behind him made him jump and slop the water he was carrying down himself and a very unimpressed Albertyne. 

“That’s an Augurey!” Newt said in amazement before he had even spun around to see the beautiful green and black feathered bird perched sleepily in a large bronze cage.

He froze with the sudden realisation that he had just wandered into a compartment in a dripping wet sweater, with a grumpy cat, completely wandless and without any assurance that it didn’t contain one of the particularly cruel Slytherin students. This was their usual compartment after all which meant whoever was in it had prompted them to abandon it. 

He nearly missed the sole occupant among the mess of odds and ends scattered haphazardly over the seats, but his eyes quickly fell on a girl sitting with her legs stretched out on the seat in front of her, his presence seemingly not disturbing her from the book she didn’t glance up from.

“Of course not, the Ministry don’t allow Augurey’s as pets,” she said unabashedly over her copy of ‘ _Why I Didn’t Die When the Augurey Cried’_ by Gulliver Pokeby. “She’s an Irish Phoenix.”

“That’s…t-the same thing,” Newt stammered against his better judgement.

Her finger stopped tracking the words on the page and she paused momentarily but long enough to make him worry if she was going to curse him and contemplated running off.

Her teeth tugged at her lower lip thoughtfully and she glanced up from her book ever so slightly, striking him with luminous eyes that rooted him firmly to the spot.

“Is it really?” she smirked teasingly and slightly impressed, resting her chin in her hand. He was used to people teasing him, but her eyes appeared to be twinkling kindly and with a curious playfulness he wasn’t familiar with.

“Then it seems frightfully irresponsible to not add that to the prohibited domestic creatures list. It would cause awful confusion.”

The pair of honey coloured eyes set into the smooth, tawny face stared at him expectantly and he wanted nothing more than to say something amusing and clever too but the only thing that came out when he opened his mouth was a breathy, nervous titter that he would traumatisingly play over and over in his head for the next two weeks.

He desperately wished for her to either start talking again or for his legs to remember their primary function and run back to Theseus and his friends, but she was holding his gaze rather commandingly and with an inquisitive smile that told him that she had no plans to rescue him from this awkward silence that seemed to only be troubling one of the pair.

He tore his gaze away from hers and his eyes darted around the compartment desperately trying to latch on to a coherent thought to vocalise before she inevitably started laughing at him or got bored and ordered him to leave, but he couldn’t help but be drawn back to her. 

Newt snuck a glance at the tie through the dark hair that was escaping her untidy bun, so he could at least determine which house she belonged to.

The standard navy robes and tie with the Hogwarts crest gave nothing away except that she must be a first year.

He had thought she would have been second year at least, but he hadn’t seen her around the castle before. He didn’t pay much attention, but something told him he probably would have noticed her.

Newt realised he was staring at her, maybe a little too long than social etiquette would dictate but she didn’t seem to mind, staring back in amusement.

After he had opened and closed his mouth several times, she sat back, chuckling slightly, and decided to put him out of his misery.

“You make as good a door as you do a conversationalist,” she joked, and he realised he was still standing awkwardly in the doorframe. Her eyes drifted down observantly and landed on his wet jumper and cat.

“Would you like to sit and dry your cat?” 

Newt’s head snapped down to Albertyne and then back to the girl who had unearthed a small tin from her robes. She unscrewed it to reveal a collection of dead flies and insects which she fed to the Augurey who had become noisy once more.

“I-I don’t want to d-disturb you.”

“I dread to refuse a boy who fears no god nor death,” she teased, flipping her book back open on her lap and crossing her ankles over to make room on the seat opposite her.  

He bit his lip hesitantly but tentatively sat down in the allocated space. His thoughts overrode his better sense as usual and he immediately regretted the words that seemed to take an eternity to get out once he started.

“Um…t-the Augurey’s cry doesn’t…doesn’t…actually mean y-you’re going to d-die. Oh, A-and I’m Newt. Scamander. N-Newt Scamander…I didn’t…I mean, I-I should have…but I-I didn’t say.”

He waited for her to get frustrated and tell him to spit it out or worse, nod along with exaggerated patience and pity. But she jiggled her feet next to him casually, continued reading her book and listening as he stumbled through his words.

Once he was mercifully finished, her eyes paused on her page and a smirk tugged on her lips before dramatically tossing the well-read copy aside with an aghast expression.

She removed her legs from the seat and folded them underneath her neatly before leaning forward close enough that he could count the faint sprinkle of freckles across her nose. He toyed with the urge to tell her how many before deciding that was a terrible idea.  

“Why, you spoiled the ending of my book, Mr Scamander,” she smiled and reached to stroke his cat behind the ears which Albertyne surprisingly did not object to, stretching up to curl against her open palm.

“I do hope your Augurey knowledge is more entertaining than the ending because it was the only thing I had to do on the way.”

He lit up like a candle. “Well, they, um, they can predict the weather.” 

“Well,” she smiled up at him and Albertyne made a displeased noise at her attention being diverted. “I do hope you don’t spoil my favourite trick. It scared off my former carriage companions. I’m awfully fond of it. I’ve become accustom to carrying rainwater with me.”

With one hand still on a very comfy Albertyne, she used the other to withdraw a tiny vial of liquid from her robe pocket with a wink before popping it back when her bird let out another squawk. She used her free hand to hush and reach between the delicate cage to stroke the bird’s feathers.

“Your cat is still wet,” she commented, giving a now sleeping Albertyne a final pat and leaning back in her seat.

Newt glanced down and felt extremely silly. “I, um, left my…my wand…”

She chuckled and pulled out her wand which had been speared through her bun. She paused momentarily, her hand squeezing the dark, elegantly twisted chestnut wand tightly and staring at it, she now being the one that looked hesitant. It lasted so briefly that Newt wondered if he’d imagined it before her smile reappeared and pointed the handle at him.

She jiggled it at him when he stared blankly at it.

“I-I think it’s supposed to be t-the other way around,” he told her when nothing happened.

She laughed.

“No, for you to use, silly. If someone pointed their wand at any of my creatures unexpectantly, I think I’d jump between them and choke them out on instinct.”

“Other creatures?” he exclaimed ardently, not at all deterred by her complete willingness to suffocate someone and instead latching onto the tentative hope that she loved magical beasts too.  “You…y-you have more?”

“I don’t think we’re quite there yet,” she smiled and bit her lip ruefully. “That’s a later conversation.”

Newt nodded, trying not to beam at the prospect that she may want to talk to him again. He knew he should excuse himself now, tap out while he was ahead. He knew the longer he stayed, the more he talked, the greater the risk was of him ruining the possibility of making a friend.

He was staring again, beaming this time, and she chuckled before prodding him in the arm with the handle of her wand which he had forgotten about.

“I wouldn’t object to you taking my wand now before my arm falls off or you and your cat get the flu – whichever comes first.”

“Oh, t-thank you. I’m not great with other people’s wands. I-I’m fine with my own. But…I wouldn’t trust myself to…I don’t know if I should…”

“I can…dry you both?” she offered a little hesitantly. “But if you want to go so you can-”

“No!” he said sitting up straighter. “I mean, I mean, I don’t m-mind if you…if you did it, if you wouldn’t mind, I mean. I can leave if you want.”

“Just thought I would check,” she said brightly, spinning her wand the right way around. With a casual flick of her wand, a stream of hot air poured from her wand and dried Newt’s jumper and Albertyne within a few seconds.

Newt stared in awe. “You can produce non-verbal spells?”

“A hot-air charm is hardly worth that lovely smile,” she said teasingly as she stuck her wand back in her bun, but he still looked curious.

“I have a lot of time to waste and I don’t exactly get to talk much at home so…” she shrugged casually as if the ability to acquire such a difficult skill so young required nothing more than that.

Newt realised her voice felt somewhat familiar. Even though he was certain he hadn’t met her before, he tried to latch on to what was so familiar before he discovered she spoke very much like Theseus.

Or more so, how Theseus had started speaking some years ago. He had started picking up the dialect and vocabulary when he was much younger than Newt by copying people at the Ministry when their father would take him to work.

He ever so faintly recalled his mother finding it adorable when Theseus would sit (legs not able to touch the carpet) at their father’s desk and pretend he could read the Daily Prophet, praising or reprimanding a tiny Newt who would crawl in to practise standing by holding on to furniture or pulling out as many books as he could manage before Theseus deemed him a ‘troublesome, little blighter’ in a proper, deliberate sort of voice that sounded like hard work.

Eventually, it just became the way Theseus spoke adding another element to how surprising their relation was to other people.

Although she didn’t stuff fancy words or phrases into their conversation, she articulated each consonant fully in a manner more reminiscent of the old, walrus-looking, aristocratic guests that would pat Newt’s head and call Theseus a ‘ _strapping young chap’_ at the dreaded Ministry ball they put on for the families than any of the young students at Hogwarts he’d heard.

Newt noticed where he would move the edges of his mouth out sideways to make an ‘ah’ sound in his words, she would move her chin down like she was a singer to make hers sound like ‘arh’. For all that Theseus would have strived for such natural proper vernacular at this age, words seem to spill from her perfectly with no effort at all. In fact, he suspected this was her speaking languidly.

He wondered if her parents were rather elderly or she grew up in one of those old, magical families without any other children around. Either seemed likely as he tried to make sense of all her odd belongings.

The intricate silver tin filled with dead bugs for one, and on the seat next to him a small crystal jar of lacewing flies, a bunch of gillyweed and dittany bundled together with what looked like a thin gold chain, a set of dirty, recently-used jade herbology tools soiling the mulberry silk scarf they were wrapped in, a serpentine encrusted journal with a violent scorch mark embedded in the cover and a silver hair pin in the shape of a snake– also encrusted with a tiny serpentine gemstone as the eye – which had been bent roughly to hold together some dried nettles.

For a person with many, admittedly uncared for, opulent belongings she seemed comically not put-together with her feet either on the chair in front of her or tucked underneath her, her hair disobediently escaping the bun she’d tried to tie the majority of it in, and the earth underneath her fingernails and streaking across one of her cheeks.

The only shabby item in her possession seemed to be the well-worn copy of the book she had abandoned remarkably in favour of Newt’s company. Speaking of, he realised he’d let the conversation dwindle back into silence while he was stupidly analysing her accent, possessions and possible home life.

She didn’t seem to have the same discomfort with silence that everyone else seemed to and was inspecting the tattered spine of her book thoughtfully as if deciding whether to repair it or not. 

“Y-you’ve read that book a lot,” he commented feeling immediately like it was a silly, obvious thing to point out.

“Yes,” she chuckled, apparently deciding she’d like to keep it in its current condition. “What else are you going to do when you’ve read them all but read them again, I suppose.”

“You’ve…you’ve read _every_ book?”

“Well, the ones I’m interested in,” she smiled a little sadly. “I’ve worked my way through many libraries and this is one of the few I’ve found worth reading more than once. I’m hoping I don’t burn through all of this school’s library too quickly. I’m not particularly good at pacing myself.”

“If-If you like m-magical creatures,” he stammered, daring to believe. “There aren’t very many. I-I’ve read them all in my first year and, I-I’m not a very quick reader.”

“You should write one then,” she shrugged as if such ambitions were so readily available to people like him. 

“I-I’m going to work at the M-ministry – the Ministry of Magic - with my father and brother…when I’m older,” he replied automatically. 

She raised her eyebrows in amusement. “You make that sound about as interesting as I imagine it to be.”

Newt shrugged awkwardly and gathered Albertyne a little closer as the thought dawned over him like a cloud.

“Newt Scamander,” she mused, testing the name out loud as she watched the countryside fly past. She pondered for a moment before apparently deciding on something and turning back to him with a smile.  “Can’t let a name like that go to waste on anything unextraordinary.”

Incredibly conscious of the fact his cheeks probably looked like he was about to burst into flames like a phoenix, he concentrated very hard on his shoes and tried not to beam like an idiot.

“I-I don’t think a name really makes a difference…”

He heard her take a faltering breath.

“It does,” she said quietly and with a touch of weariness that made him look up at her again but she just half-smiled slightly, looking the same way he felt when he started talking about the Ministry, and went back to trying to smooth out the curling pages of her book distractedly.   

He wasn’t sure if she was finally starting to grow tired of him, realising how boring and awkward he truly was, or he had said something to incite the discreet change in her mood.

“W-what do you think you’ll, um, become?” he asked timidly.

“Hmm?”

“Well, if…if you could p-pick an occupation based on what your name sounded like…w-what would you think you’d e-end up doing?”

She chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully before answering him.

“With a name like Leta Lestrange probably a muggle comic book hero. They do enjoy their alliteration…But I daresay I’ll be made to-”

She paused when he paled at her words and Albertyne woke with a grumpy noise at how suddenly Newt had squeezed her against him.

Her teeth went back to digging into her lower lip, but she smirked humourlessly, her honey-coloured eyes now hardened into a steely, narrowed ambers. 

“My, you look like you just heard an Augurey cry,” she chuckled, a little more darkly than before. “I was beginning to think nothing could take the colour out of those cheeks.”

“Newt?!” Theseus’ voice cut through the tangibly tense atmosphere as he appeared in the doorway, a little flustered but in no way diminishing his commanding presence that was exuding disapproval and a thinly veiled degree of shock at the scene before him.

“Come on,” he told Newt firmly in a tone that implied there was no room for discussion, not that Newt required one.

He sprang up and followed his brother dutifully, not daring to look back at the girl with whom he’d had the longest conversation he’d ever had outside his own family members.

Theseus glared circumspectly at Leta who smirked slightly and went back to reading with an amused smile.

Newt felt an awful, heavy, sinking sensation take residence in his stomach as Theseus led him back. To Newt’s surprise, his brother didn’t reprimand him or even give him a painstakingly patronising lecture, thankfully, but kept his hand firmly around Newt’s upper arm as they walked back and even after they had taken their seats again.

The chatter immediately died down when they had arrived as Theseus looked formidably angry at his friends and for the first time, Newt felt lucky he didn’t share a common room with his brother as that seemed to be where Theseus was saving his anger for. Theseus let ago of his arm and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly before talking him through the best beginner racing brooms.

Newt was glad that Theseus had elected to forget his short excursion, but it didn’t not at all ease the despairing feeling in his chest and abdomen that he finally decided felt strangely like guilt.

At first, he thought it was the aftermath of panic. Finding yourself alone, wandless and completely oblivious in a small space with a Lestrange, arguably the worst family of them all, when you had not even properly begun the term was the kind of peak Newt Scamander behaviour that always had his family on edge.  

He wondered, barely hanging on to Theseus’ words now, if perhaps he was a little hopelessly oblivious like everyone annoyingly seemed to think for he didn’t believe deep down he shared the disgust and distrust that rolled off his brother in waves towards the young girl.

Newt was simply and momentarily shocked. He had struggled to deal with the very basic of human emotions his life thus far let alone becoming practised in concealing them.

He was certain now that he was wrestling with guilt.

He had noticed her face, for only a fraction of a second, when he reacted to hearing her name. It made him feel unfamiliarly unkind to have inspired that all too familiar feeling in someone else.

Even one hour and a pumpkin pasty essentially force-fed by Theseus later, this feeling wasn’t alleviated, and he had been, mercifully, left to his own devices which meant nothing more than sitting up, hugging his knees under his chin and not being able to distract himself from anything other than thoughts of her.

Newt tried to console himself with the conclusion that if she did have unhappy feelings, which his family seemed to believe feelings at all were somewhat in question for that family in particular, they wouldn’t have been wounded by someone as especially insignificant as him.

Students with those kinds of last names were not outcasts by any means and he was sure as soon as the Sorting Hat announced her she would be whisked away to their formidable circle. 

It wasn’t as comforting an idea as he had first thought, the idea of her with the likes of the Rosiers, and the Blacks and the rest of them. They would stomp out any trace of bright, fanciful whimsy he thought he saw in her before she even made it to the Slytherin common room she’d indoubtly be placed in.

The hilarity wasn’t lost on him, the fact that weak, clumsy, helpless Newt Scamander was concerned over someone as untouchable as a Lestrange.

Newt knew he had always had a protective instinct towards dangerous things that could easily destroy him but never another person before.

He started to wish a little that Theseus had not interrupted and wished that he was more skilled in concealing his shock.

She had only seemed far too bright, kind and patient to have belonged to that kind of family is all that had surprised him.

She had mentioned muggles briefly, he remembered, with no sense of hatred or disgust.

Maybe, he hoped for his sake and not at all hers for what it would cost her, she was different.

He knew how his brother would sigh deeply and shake his head as he always did at Newt’s penchant for seeing only the beauty and goodness at such dangerous things, so he sat silently and did not indulge any of these thoughts.

It was likely too late for either of them now, anyway.

Despite her peculiarities, she belonged to a strange, dark world far beyond his reach even in the castle halls.

His world, and his family, were nearly just as stringent on such matters.

But for the sake of wild imagining, he wondered if he hadn’t panicked and fled so ridiculously and in a manner absolutely putting a disastrous and unrecoverable end to their interaction, in some reality they could have been friends.

That would have been something, he thought laughably. _Newt Scamander and Leta Lestrange._

_L'esprit de l'escalier – The feeling you get after leaving a conversation when you think of all the things you should have said._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long to get out. I wrestled with being unhappy with how it was turning out each time I rewrote and then when I thought it was as good as it was going to get and I was about to post, I realised that Care of Magical Creatures likely wouldn't have existed as a subject until Newt's work. Unfortunately, that was the basis of most of the conversations in this chapter so I had to rewrite it again and I'm just thankful that its over. Plus side is that a new promotional picture of Leta came out literally about three minutes ago when I was about to post so I could quickly rewrite the brief description of her wand. Thank you so much to anyone who is still reading. We respect and love Leta Lestrange in this house (and it's a small house, I know) so your readership and comments are always loved and appreciated.


	5. Ubuntu

“You’re heading the right way to becoming a rotisserie chicken, Tem,” Leta warned the deafening Augurey, who was not all deterred by her owner’s attempts of hushing or threats. 

She knew that the damage control team her parents and their relatives had assembled from their more responsible offspring were due to arrive at any moment and she did not need those prying bunch paying any special notice or getting irritated by Tempest.

Leta, growing bored again after the auburn-haired boy…Newt…had disappeared so fast as if Merlin himself had risen from the grave and _accio’d_ him to the immortal realm.

She had wondered what it would be like to talk to someone before they knew who she was. It had been fun while it lasted.

Admittedly, she felt a little bad for playing with him. He seemed to have a naïve kindness about him. She normally only ever toyed with people who rather deserved it – which certainly weren’t in short stock in her usual company.

She imagined him now, pale and petrified with the realisation he had been wandless and alone, enclosed in a tiny space with a Lestrange for at least a quarter of an hour.

Leta hoped the tale would earn him favour with his impressed classmates. If he had the good sense, he could make some embellishments – such as the extremely augmented story of her most recent expulsion which was currently making its way through the train – to further impress them. She wouldn’t refute his claims should he make any, it only seemed fair as she had used him to allay her boredom, enjoying herself and waiting for the realisation to hit and petrify him like a Basilisk. He hadn’t disappointed. It was a shame after all, though. His company was somewhat unexpectedly not awful.

“Fine, you bloody bird,” she huffed and took the rainwater vial out of her pocket. She downed it and grimaced at the stagnant taste before shooting a glare at Tempest who had quietened immediately.

“Lestrange,” an unpleasant voice materialised in the compartment. “If you were planning on poisoning yourself, you could have sent owl with the joyous news and saved us the journey.”

“Just a little liquid courage,” she jested with a wink, chucking the vial to Castor Black who caught it expertly. He sniffed it warily. “Aren’t you twelve?”

“Lestrange’s age faster,” she told him.  “It’s the trauma genes.”

“Maybe only the halfbloods,” Caecilius Lestrange said with his arms crossed.

Leta smirked, packing her few belongings that she hadn’t gotten around to putting away. “Stand down, Caecilius,” she rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows your family took your mother’s name because the Flint’s have been barred from borrowing gold from Gringotts.”

The fifth year backhanded her across the face with such force that it slammed her against the seat. Tempest let out a shriek.

“Control yourself, Cae,” a chilling voice froze him in place. “I promised we’d get her to the castle at least. After that, you can knock her about the common room until the early hours of the morning for all I care.”

“Vinda, you’re looking positively radiant tonight,” Leta looked up at her pale, dark-haired cousin and pulled herself back on her feet, using her sleeve to wipe the trickle of blood from her nose. “Good to see they’ve made the hopes and dreams of orphans into a skin cream.”

“I wonder how many hits to the face it takes to shut you up, cousin,” Vinda said thoughtfully. “Maybe after the Sorting Ceremony we’ll find out…”

“Clarisse would be interested in that data. The curse makes that experiment an impossibility.” 

Vinda sighed and with a flick of her wand, slammed the lid shut on Leta’s trunk. “I’m beginning to think you enjoy the taste of blood in your mouth. Is dirty blood particularly flavoursome?”

Leta looked at Vinda bizarrely as she grabbed Tempest’s cage and her luggage. “Urr, I can’t say I’m sure, Vinda. I haven’t attended any blood tastings that have a muggle and pure blood blend on tap yet, but I’ll post my review to you immediately if I ever have the privilege.”

Vinda didn’t look amused and left the compartment with the swish of her robe and the others followed. Leta carried her things out and found a young boy the same height as her waiting in the walkway. He was twisting his fingers nervously behind the older Slytherins’ that Leta assumed they were supposed to follow.

“If you’re trying to break your fingers to avoid classes tomorrow…” Leta said and he looked up, startled at her. “…then they must be far more intense than I’m used to.”

He shook his head, looking perplexed. “Um, no not at all. Just want to get the Sorting over with.”

He looked around as if to distract himself from something other than his anxiety.

“Why was Vinda Rosier talking about blood?” he asked, screwing his nose up in distaste.

“She’s a vampire,” Leta replied without missing a beat and his eyes widened.

 “Really?!”

“Yes,” she said in a low voice. “Most people think she’s just abrasive, gaunt, cruel, vicious and vitamin D deficient but she’s actually that and a vampire.”

“Whoa!” he exhaled, looking warily at the girl striding ahead of them.

“Have you practiced at all? For the ceremony?” he eventually asked, twisting his fingers together again.

“For the Sorting? Well, I mean I am definitely more confident balance-wise on a chair than a stool, but I haven’t practiced specially,” Leta looked up, a touch of uncharacteristic panic marring her features. “Should I have?”

“I’m not sure, I don’t know what happens,” the boy admitted with worry.

“Oh, it’s in that Hogwarts book,” Leta told him. “There’s nothing to it. You sit down, and this old magic hat decides what house you should be in.”

“Is that it?” the boy exclaimed in relief. “Thank Merlin! I thought I would have to…duel or do some kind of test to get into Slytherin.”

“I think I would’ve preferred that, actually,” she murmured as they stepped off the train and on to the platform. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than someone in her head – it was the only thing she’d been able to keep for herself.

“I doubt _you_ have anything to worry about,” he said, helping Leta with her trunk. “A Lestrange. You shouldn’t even have to do the ceremony.”

Leta smiled in thanks at his help. “And you? You must be carrying around quite the moniker to receive such a _hospitable_ escort party.”

“Nott,” he replied. “Sebastian Nott.”

“Ah, the Notts’. The creators of the Sacred 28 list back in the day,” Leta tried to keep the distaste out of her voice. She knew better than anyone it wasn’t Sebastian’s fault.

“That’s right,” Sebastian sighed where Leta had expected him to be proud. “So, a lot of expectations as you can imagine. Not that they expect much from me…”

Leta frowned and was about to speak when Caecilius turned to see them conversing.

“Nott! Don’t speak with her, come along.”

Sebastian’s shoulders dropped a little but followed behind them. Leta kept her distance from the group, looking around at the platform she remembered reading was called Hogsmeade Station.

The other students were a mix of excitement and anxiousness. The younger students seemed to be splitting off at the end of the platform led by, who Leta presumed to be, the groundskeeper. The group ahead of her paused.

“Does _she_ go with them?” Castor asked the other two.

“I’m not sure, she isn’t a first year but…”

Some other first years who Leta recognised from functions her father put on, were waiting to be led to the lake. The ones that did know her stiffened when they saw her and immediately began whispering. She smiled and turned to see Sebastian looking apprehensive at the group.

“Go ahead,” Leta said to him encouragingly.

“Are you sure?” Sebastian asked, noticing their icy reception of her. “I can stay…”

“It’s okay,” she smiled. “Goodluck! I’ll see you later on.”

“Sure,” Sebastian smiled back and hesitantly approached the first years. Leta didn’t seem to find any point in putting a pariah on the poor boy before he’d even been Sorted.

“Lestrange!” Vinda yelled and Leta followed them to the carriages. She gasped in elation – for the first time in a long time – before dropping her truck, tripping up a very grumpy Ravenclaw third year in the process, and ran over to the skeletal, winged horses.

She gently reached out her fingers to ghost over the fleshless creature who leaned into the rare touch to her immense happiness.

“Hello darling,” she said softly running her fingers softly through the Thestral’s glossy, black coat and then over the leathery wings. “You are beautiful, aren’t you? Let me see your teeth.”

The Thestral, enjoying the attention, let her pull its mouth up slightly with great care. “Look at those sharp fangs, you clever thing!”

“Lestrange, what on Earth are you doing?” Castor enquired to the young girl who seemed to be stroking the air in front of her.

“I’m seeing how well the Thestral’s are. They’re naturally fleshless so it’s hard to tell. Their coats are glossy, and their fangs are sharp so that’s good. They can understand human speech so…”

“Lestrange, do shut up and get up here before you cause a fuss,” Caecilius demanded. 

The Thestral sniffed at Leta’s feet where Tempest’s cage had been placed. “Oh no, that’s not for you. But I’ll bring you back something, alright?”

A man barked at Leta to get in her carriage.

“You’re the second student I’ve had to tell to get away from those bloody invisible things tonight!”

Leta looked personally offended and glared icily at the man before saying goodbye to the Thestral and taking her seat opposite her reluctant babysitters who had opted to squish together rather than share a bench with her.

She kept Tempest’s cage safely between her knees and returned to her book if only to avoid conversation with the three Slytherin’s in front of her who were whispering darkly about some students whose names she didn’t recognise.

“Leta Lestrange,” Castor Black, who had apparently grown bored of the conversation, leaned forwards toward her in a way that would make every part of her body want to recoil had she been any less tenacious. “So antisocial and mysterious.”

“Not really, it’s the iron deficiency,” she said, not sparing him a glance from her book.

He looked blankly at her.

“Vegetarianism,” she continued boredly, flipping a page. “I’m essentially running on buttered peas, black tea, tooth flossing string mints and hopes and prayers. I have the social energy of a geriatric Flobberworm, but my blood pressure is incredible.”

“Your what?” Vinda snapped.

“Blood pressure,” she glanced up at her cousin as if she were the most stupid being on the planet. “The strength of your blood pushing against the sides of your blood vessels as your heart pumps it around the body.”

“That’s muggle-speak,” Caecilius spat darkly.

Leta rolled her eyes and looked over at them from her book. “Everyone has a blood pressure, you idiot. They just figured out how to measure it first. This may come as a shock to you but if you cut open one of you, a muggle and a filthy halfblood like me you’re going to find more or less the exact same gruesome sight,” Leta paused for a moment. “Alright, perhaps not with my stepmother. I’d imagine black tar and several live bats may emerge instead...”   

“Lestrange,” Vinda snapped warningly. “We don’t discuss muggle things.” 

“ _Muggle things_ ,” she rolled her eyes. “Does pure blood not require the need to be pumped around the body? Does it just slosh about in the veins bidding on pristine human skulls, marrying its cousins and getting addicted to firewhisky? I can see what the fuss is about now. I never understood the supremacy of it all but not needing a cardiovascular system…now that is impressive…”

Caecilius smacked the book from her hands in anger.

“That’s enough, Lestrange. Before I throw you from this carriage!” Vinda was furious. “Do you think we wouldn’t be able to make it look like an accident?”

“Not at all, it would be quite easy I daresay,” Leta replied politely. “Jumping from a moving carriage would be very on brand for me.”

Vinda exhaled with her eyes closed as they approached the castle. It was far more beautiful than the pictures and drawings that she had seen in books but Leta was not as awe-inspired as the other students seemed to be, even though it wasn’t their first year.

She had never placed much sentiment on aesthetic beauty. Incredulously, there were people who found Lestrange Manor beautiful and Thestral’s hideous and disturbing. Maybe she did believe in it once. Vinda Rosier and Clarisse Lestrange were considered classically beautiful, they were known for it.

Leta briefly remembered the morning they were to sit for their family portrait, the first one that included Clarisse. She nervously sat on the stool, her ankles swept to the side and crossed over like the photographer had instructed, not yet able to touch the floor.

Clarisse was beside her, sitting up straight and elegantly which Leta tried to copy but she inadvertently hunched her shoulders up in the attempt which earned her another reprimand from the photographer. Clarisse had her hands gracefully placed on her leg with the hand sporting the large emerald jewel clasped between silver roses and two small ravens placed over the other. To Leta, she was as pretty as a doll.

Leta reached her tiny hand out to touch Clarisse’s pale one. Clarisse withdrew her hand in disgust. Later, after Leta had snuck away from her bedroom, where she supposed to be waiting patiently in her party dress, to chase the grumpy Krewp (why didn’t he want the hat she’d made him for Christmas?) when she peeked around the doorway to her father’s room where the pretty woman stood perusing a selection of the finest fabrics in blacks, emerald greens and rich burgundy’s.

Once, Clarisse had selected the shawl that best complimented her gown she sauntered out of her room, unaware of Leta who was hunched quietly by the door. She slipped in and climbed on to the padded stool in front of the grand, ornate dressing table laden with glittering necklaces, rings, bracelets and headpieces.

She had been so excited to show everyone when she skipped down the hallway to the party, the curse that prevented her from talking was lifted each time there was a gathering. Her curly hair in a sagging knot at the back of her head in tribute to Clarisse’s tight bun, huge gaudy earrings weighing down her tiny ears, seven different necklaces swinging around as she moved and burgundy lipstick smeared across her mouth. She hoped Clarisse would be pleased.

Clarisse had been nursing a drink in her hand and was barking at the house elves for placing the enormous gold harp in the wrong corner. Leta slipped her little hand in Clarisse’s who looked down in shock.

“Do I look pretty, mummy?”

It was the first time Leta remembered being hit so hard that she wound up on the ground. She remembered curling up and sobbing on the marble floor, surrounded by the gems that went scattering when she fell. Her hands were tightly pressed over her small ears which were bleeding profusely from where Clarisse had torn out the earrings. She had run off to a dark, disused music room curling up in a corner and crying and bleeding until she fell into a restless sleep hugging a baby Jarvey that had escaped its cage to come looking for the small child. She woke up briefly to see a mysterious man kneeling in front of her. He wrapped something around her head to cover her ears, that she would later know to be dittany. Her earlobes were healed by the morning.

She was ashamed to admit that it was not the last time she had sought her family’s approval.

The thought made Leta feel sick to her stomach but there once was a time where she adored her older cousin. Vinda was so beautiful. A heart-shaped pale face with rosy cheekbones and light blue eyes but it was her hair that Leta was fascinated with. It was dark like Leta’s but straight, silky and always so elegant. Leta had tried to smooth her hair down and make it as neat and perfect as her cousins to no avail. Vinda had taken the comb from Leta one day, smiling sweetly and offering to help. Her cousin had never shown her any kindness before but Leta lit up, her legs swinging happily until she felt movement all over her scalp. Hundreds of tiny spiders burst from her hair, running down her shoulders and her arms. She lifted her arms and watched them curiously dance over her skin. Vinda paused mid-cackle, disappointed in Leta’s reaction and called her a freak before knocking her off the stool.

The first time Leta had seen someone who looked like her, it had been a muggle in the village beyond her family’s forest. She had sat, cross legged on the forest floor, surrounded by all the curious creatures that had ventured out, braiding her hair like the woman she’d seen. When Clarisse saw it that afternoon, she cut them off roughly with a potion’s knife while Leta cried silently, the only way the house allowed her to. Later that night, sat up against a tree with her fingers curling around her now short, uneven hair, was when the first Thestral she’d ever seen approached her. It was at that moment, when she reached out her hand to stroke the gentle creatures face that she knew what true beauty was.

Leta snapped out of her daydream and joined the groups of students milling into the entrance hall.

“See you after the Sorting, Lestrange,” Castor said.

“Make sure to eat some chicken before she names and adopts it,” Vinda smirked and Leta received a shove up the steps that saw her knee painfully collide with the concrete.

The trio disappeared up another large staircase in laughter – their obligations for the evening, so far, met. She suspected they would oversee ensuring she didn’t bring further disgrace to her family for the year.

Leta supposed she should probably enjoy the rare moment of peaceful solitude while she waited with the group of first-years. She presumed they had their luggage taken from them before leaving on the boats as she was the only one still with her belongings.

“First years!” a wizard dressed in plum and navy robes called to the group. “And…new students.”

The wizard’s eyes landed on an older teenage boy towering over the group and Leta, sitting on her truck, on whom his eyes narrowed critically.

“My name is Professor Dalibwyn. Head of Ravenclaw House and Professor of Astronomy. Shortly, I shall escort you all to the Great Hall where we will commence the Sorting Ceremony and start of term banquet. During the Sorting Ceremony, you will be placed into one of the four Hogwarts Houses. Each House represents…”

Leta had lost interest, it being the third school introductory speech she had endured in a year and started thinking about her little brother who would most likely be asleep by now. She had started experimenting on Howlers, trying to lower their volume and develop safer methods of their self-disposal as opposed to bursting into flame so she could start sending him messages he could listen to until he was able to read. She hoped the night’s formalities didn’t drag on too long, so she could get back to work on the project.

“Miss Lestrange,” Professor Dalibwyn said, snapping her out of her thoughts. “I trust you were sent your admittance letter?”

Leta slowly stretched out her arms, looking them up and down before returning, unflinchingly, to his displeased stare. “Yes, it seems I was, Professor.” 

“Then you also received your equipment list specifying the pets students may bring?”

Leta, patted down her navy robes and pulled out a crumpled parchment from the pocket and unfolded it with the shake of a hand.

“ _’Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad_ ’,” she read contemplatively. “Excellent suggestions, Professor, very clear emphasis on the limit. However, I did not.”

“Did not what?”

“Desire to, sir.” 

Professor Dalibwyn pursed his lips, unamused by the girl and the Head of Gryffindor House behind him who had come to let them know they were ready to begin but instead was leaning against the doors of the Great Hall in bemusement.

“They are not _suggestions_ , Miss Lestrange, they are exceptions to our very strict no-creatures policy.”

“Oh,” Leta said, slow-blinking eyes in full effect and completely wasted on the stern teacher. “Well, lucky I didn’t at all misunderstand the possibly very vague and misleading instructions and decided to bring an owl after all,” she smiled holding up her cage. 

“That’s an Augurey.”

“Is it?” Leta said in confusion, staring at the sleepy bird. “I thought she may just be a particularly pretty coloured owl. I mean, I only remember learning how Augury’s are magnificent creatures though painfully shy and unbearably noisy. It would surely take an _extraordinarily_ talented witch…or wizard…to train a bird to be so calm and…owl-like.”

“ _Extraordinarily_ , Miss Lestrange, you’ve managed to earn the first detention of the year…and within your first fifteen minutes as a student here. I believe that’s a new record. Now I would dispose of that creature immediately young lady unless you would like to set another for shortest admittance to a school.”

She pondered for a moment looking at Tempest. “Out of curiosity, what would expulsion entail? I’m collecting a wizarding school bingo of sorts and what would happen say if I were to cross them all off? I just have quite a lot to do, you see, and I’m assessing whether I really have the time and the need for a formal education.”

“On that occasion, your wand would be snapped, and you would be essentially forbidden to practice magic in any form.”

Leta frowned. “Yes, that would be quite inconvenient actually. Okay, sorry Tem, we’ve had a good run but it’s time to go.”    

She hopped onto a stone bench under one of the old windows and opened one of the panes. Tempest looked most displeased at this suggestion.

“Sorry, girl, I know you don’t deserve this. It isn’t fair. One day, I promise, my dear, your slightly turquoise complexion will be celebrated and embraced, and you will have the same rights of all your typically coloured owls, but the world isn’t ready yet. Goodness, I know. Fly free and remember me. I absolutely will never see you again.”

Tempest ruffled her feathers in a kind of bored, annoyance and flew into the Autumn night.

Leta stepped down and dusted off her robes.

“Out of curiosity with absolutely no vested interest, would this ban on any not-strictly-looking-like-an-owl bird rule extend to…all birds? Such as snidgets or fwoopers?”

“Unquestionably,” Professor Dalibwyn glowered. “Why?”

“Just…general curiosity. Gathering some ideas for the next Hogwarts leaflet. Just so, you know, there’s no misunderstandings next time. No tricky situations. Is there a committee for such a project? I’m very ardent about school spirit, you see.”

“Caretaker, please relieve Miss Lestrange of her luggage and make sure it is properly checked.”

Leta tightened her hold on her bags briefly but handed it over with a smile.

“Terribly kind of you, sir.”

Professor Dalibwyn turned around and exhaled, extremely thankful that the unexpectedly facetious Lestrange would be Professor Persillious and the rest of Slytherin’s problem soon enough.

The other students shuffled through the large open doors in shy and nervous anticipation led by the warm and welcoming, young Professor Dumbledore. Leta followed along behind the group of awestruck students, completely aware and unbothered by Professor Dalibwyn walking with his arms folded close behind her with waves of suspicion rolling off him.

The Great Hall was illuminated with thousands of floating candles and the ceiling, which seemed to open to the clear, starry night sky, only held Leta’s attention for a moment. It was a pretty piece of magic, but it was only an illusion after all.

The long table on the far left to her was presumably the Slytherin table. She could make out several familiar cousins and children of guests her family had hosted. 

The Sorting Ceremony was far from spectacular though Leta was quietly thankful that whatever negotiations and considerations were going on between the student and the hat were telepathic.

The one redeemable feature of her wretched name was that, alphabetically, ‘L’ wouldn’t be an awfully long wait. Some students walked up to the stool with confidence while others trembled with equal parts anxiety and excitement. The sorting itself varied for each child, she noticed. Sometimes, the hat would call out a house before it barely had a chance to grace the child’s head and other times it would be a few, torturous minutes before the student would be placed somewhere.

Leta looked on in confusion as ‘Lowry, Aisling-Rose’ was called forth and subsequently placed in Gryffindor to roaring applause.

Perhaps as they were not first years, herself and the other new student would be sorted afterward. More dramatic effect was certainly not what she was hoping to attract during this ordeal.

“Nott, Sebastian,” Professor Dalibwyn read from the parchment.

Leta watched as the rosy-faced, golden-haired boy walked hesitantly but with his head-held high in a manner befitting an elite, pureblood upbringing. The almost imperceptible trembling in the boy could be put down to excitement and eagerness to someone observant enough to notice but Leta knew better.

He clambered onto the Sorting stool and Professor Dalibwyn placed the hat on his head and it fell over his eyes. Leta noticed Sebastian was gripping the edges of the stool so tightly his knuckles were turning white. It was only then that she saw the faint beginnings of a large scar across the back of his hand.

She felt a strange sense of panic for him as the hat pondered for over thirty seconds now, a sentiment he seemed to share as his expression changed from determination to confusion to fear. His terrified blue eyes somehow landed on her and she smiled encouragingly, taking a deep breath which he mimicked.

“Alright…SLYTHERIN!” 

Sebastian sagged in relief and Leta clapped, relieved for him. He ran off, far more enthusiastically now, to his new table.

Leta felt very strange, like she couldn’t take a breath without feeling something sharp puncturing through her lungs and the apple she had munched on during the train ride threatened menacingly in her stomach to make a reappearance with every passing minute.

This uncomfortable custom would go by much more quickly than Sebastian’s when it was her turn she assured herself. After all, she was a Lestrange, and each and every Lestrange was sent to Slytherin the second the Sorting Hat touched their raven hair. Despite her being as strange and unlikely as a Lestrange family member could be, she had known within a minute of reading _Hogwarts, A History_ where her Hogwarts home would be. Although a large part of her was inwardly complacent with how dissimilar she was to her relatives, she couldn’t deny that for all her idiosyncrasies - cunning, resourcefulness and ambition were the traits that all her characteristics tended to branch from.

However, she couldn’t help feeling wary about the whole process. She had systematically been stripped of all sense of control. When she wasn’t being shipped off to various, well-paid institutions, she was confined within the stone walls and curse that dictated who she saw, when she could speak, what she could touch, when she could scream…

Leta’s thoughts were her only sacred, untouched and unreachable place. The idea of an old, ratty piece of millinery poking around in her head in front of an audience of eight hundred plus was somewhat unnerving even to someone as daring as herself. 

Eventually the group dwindled down and after ‘Zervakis, Georgios’ joined Hufflepuff, Leta’s theory was confirmed when the tall, Bulgarian student next to her was called up to be sorted quite hastily into Ravenclaw.

“Lestrange, Loleta,” the Professor said curtly as if her name were the foulest thing he’d ever had in his mouth, not bothering to raise his voice as she was the only one left.

She lifted her slightly too-long robes to climb the marble steps quietly, her feet not making a sound - an imperative skill that seemed to have worked its way into her subconscious even when she wasn’t at risk of being found where she not ought to be.

At least the other students had grown restless and impatient enough to start chattering quietly amongst themselves, secure in the belief that, like her entire genealogy before her, the latest Lestrange would be swiftly sorted into Slytherin the moment the hat brushed a single dark curl of hers.

Sweeping the loose tendrils behind her ears, Leta waited as Professor Dalibwyn attempted to place the hat on her head – a task made difficult by the wand she hadn’t removed from her hair.

The teachers behind her showed as much interest as the students, assuming the contingent Lestrange heir would be eager to join her family and likely assert her superiority over the other pupils. The assumption was not completely misguided as it had been the way each member of the ancient family had begun their tutelage at Hogwarts. The restlessness started to grow and chatter about the feast, new first years and classes grew steadily from hushed whispers.

A bang of metal against wood changed that though, as Vinda Rosier stabbed her fork into the table looking at Leta in confusion and anger. The sudden, violent noise drew everyone’s attention to the fact that the old hat had not in fact called out ‘Slytherin’ immediately and remained on the young girl’s head.

It was with gasps of amazement – and horror for some – over the course of a few minutes that people realised it was stuck on a Hatstall. It had not at all been the first one of that evening, but it had been the first ever for a Lestrange and even the Gryffindors, who were at first impatient with hunger, looked on in entertainment and to enjoy the indignation of their rival house.

‘ _Ah! Another Lestrange. A nice, easy end to my evening. And a true Lestrange too! A true raven. The last raven I sorted would have been your father. Brimming with ambition, talent and power your predecessors, young raven. I will have a quick look though I predict you shall be in the house of your forefathers momentarily…_ ’  Leta flinched, hearing the hat loud and clearly in her mind, when Professor Dalibwyn had put it on her head.

Leta sat quietly for a second, listing the bits of information she thought the hat ought to need, already edging to the side of the stool in anticipation of when she would be able to hop down.

‘ _Very kind of you, young raven, to allow me to see your skills and attributes. However, this is not a job interview and I would be able to sort you more effectively if I were to see you for myself. Though I am greatly impressed by your proficiency in Occlumency at such a young age. Rowena Ravenclaw would be impressed._ ’

Leta knew that anything other than Slytherin would be final straw that saw her blasted off, not only the Lestrange, but every sacred family’s tapestry.

Ravenclaw may not see her entirely disowned though.

She was certain it was a respectable option in perhaps less strict families as she recalled a few Ravenclaw alumnus at events. She wouldn’t go as far to say she was academically motivated, but she easy surpassed every other student in her year level if she became bored enough and her wit tended to be the driving force of the many beatings she’d received.

_‘You seem to be attempting to do my job for me. Care to let me in on your decision making, young raven?’_

Leta took a deep breath and supposed it would only take a second. The garment didn’t seem to want to make a decision based on her parentage and was insistent on breaking down her shields to confirm her destination for itself.

She carefully let pieces of her memory and inner workings through, glancing over at the Slytherin table and hoping the hat would shout it out before she had to give away too much more.

_‘The less defiant you are, the quicker I will be able to sort you, girl. I have nothing to do all year but wait for this ceremony, so I have no qualms keeping you here for hours.’_

The Sorting Hat knew it could break her Occlumency shields in an instant. She was an exceptionally talented witch at twelve but was still a child after all. Her Occlumency was rudimentary at best, obviously a developing, self-taught skill. But despite her best efforts at concealing her mind, distrust radiated off her in palpable waves and taking down her Occlumency shield by force would not assist in a smooth and correct Sorting.

It made her fingernails dig into her closed fist so tightly, she thought may have reopened the half healed crescent shaped cuts in her palms, but she slowly let her guard down. 

Fear, hesitation, resignation and a pleading desire for the ordeal to be over with bubbled to the surface as she finally allowed the Sorting Hat to gather whatever essential knowledge it required. But the Hat had not been prepared for what lay under the surface.

There was too much confusion raging inside the young girl’s head to allow the Hat find what it sought immediately. Usually, even with the more difficult to sort, the Hat was able to at least exclude two Houses to begin with but there was far too much inner conflict to even allow that.

Though there was no denying there was remarkable strength within her.

‘ _You’re an impressive young lady. Daring, brave, instilled with incredible spirit, patient, loyal to few but passionately so, tirelessly hard-working, marvellously intelligent and resourceful, dedicated, ambitious, sharp-witted and a deeply hidden but powerful sense of empathy.’_    

‘ _Thanks_.’ Leta tried thinking to the Hat. ‘ _If this is all we’re going to discuss then sitting here for hours doesn’t sound entirely awful after all.’_

‘ _Yes, you do embody what each founder valued but as is the curse with such a remarkable repertoire, you have just as easily acquired the_ _negative qualities to such characteristics. I see recklessness, ruthlessness, pride, disregard and even a contempt for rules, competitiveness, distrust, impulsive, stubborn, hot-tempered, manipulative, sceptical, disguised self-loathing and extremely low self-worth…’_

‘ _Alright, alright_ ,’ Leta frowned. ‘ _We could wrap this up on second thought.’_

The Hat attempted to whittle down what may be the girl’s most defining qualities but as soon as an answer would come into a focus, a contradicting thought would overwhelm it. 

The girl continued to sit, in obvious uneasiness despite her attempts to hide that fact, offering little help on the matter. The Hat delved a little deeper and discovers something uncomfortable but unfortunately not terribly uncommon in families such as hers.

Abuse. Cruelty. Anguish. Terrible trauma and loss and fear.

Strangely, it seemed that she fed off it, making her abilities more powerful rather than diminishing them as such horrifying treatment would normally.

There was also something dark and twisted in the very depths of her subconscious, too deep and distorted for the Hat to identify and for her to even have realised its existence yet.

It, like her Occlumency, was still in its beginning stages but warping away ominously with no telling what may emerge once it was brought to the surface. There was no denying that she was either blessed or burdened with great power which, even in its infantile stage, was balancing on a knife’s edge and tumultuous in what path she would choose.

The Hat knew it ought to stay out of such future affairs – ultimately, its job was to Sort her into the House she most belonged to rather than meddle in fate but surely there was nothing wrong in ascertaining which direction she may prefer to be steered.

Leta glanced over at the Slytherin table where a few particularly annoyed faces glared at her as if she had somehow purposely made the Hat deliberate longer than what should be necessary for a Lestrange. As if she needed to seek out trouble like she was ever in short supply of it.

‘ _Slytherin, huh? Yes, even without your family history considered, you are a very apt candidate. More so then even some Slytherins I’ve sorted tonight. And more so than even some of your past family you may be surprised to know. Very cunning, ambitious and resourceful as aforementioned. Salazar would indeed deem you worthy.’_

Something tugged on the girl’s nerves. It was not entirely rare at all that an outcast child from such a blood purity minded family would sit on this stool and in the Hat’s experience, they yearned for acceptance above anything else. Strangely though, this one had seemed to find the idea of being ‘ _deemed worthy’_ derisive as if it were the last thing she’d ever want to be found. At least by her family and the founder they all so blindly admired.

_‘You disagree?’_

_‘No,’_ she thought. _‘That will do just fine. I’m a Lestrange, there’s no better place for me.’_

Resignation.

_‘You must be stronger in your convictions if this is where you truly desire and wish me to sort you.’_

She sighed impatiently. _‘I know everybody there. It’s where I’m expected to go. It will appease my family somewhat. And it will make everything…easier.’_

As the Hat intended, the more she thought out her reasoning – the more ridiculous it seemed to sound to her. It was always easier if the student were able to draw their own conclusions.

‘ _I agree; however, you have the burning desire to distance yourself from your usual company. You very rarely partake in that what is expected of you and take no pleasure in doing so. The same can be said for appeasing your illustrious family. And if there is one fact I am sure of even after such a short time in your head, it is that Loleta Lestrange does not make things easy for herself. I would say that stating you have a rebellious streak would be somewhat of an understatement. You do carry a protective sense of arrogance, though not as ill-meaning as your predecessors, and you certainly do not shrink from a challenge. You could make a fine Gryffindor.’_

Leta didn’t dare glance over to the Lion table to give any hints as to what the Hat was deliberating but she gave the thought courteous consideration which was quite gracious, she thought, considering the Hat kept giving her such back-handed compliments she wondered if mental whiplash was a real affliction.

Her family would be beside themselves. _Gryffindor_. If she were going to deviate, of course it would be to Slytherin’s foremost rival. Gryffindor was only ever mentioned negatively within her household. According to these conversations, Gryffindor were full of proud, arrogant fools, Mudbloods and blood traitors.

 _‘What do you think?’_ The Hat enquired and Leta frowned as if she had never been asked the question.

Leta had always harboured different opinions then her family on blood purity and when it came to Gryffindor, she had barely put any thought of her own into at all. She remembered supposing bravery would not be such an awful thing to be known for.

The Gryffindors were always on the front page of the Daily Prophet – the headlines are what usually inspired these harsh words from her relatives – the fighters, the risk-takers, the Aurors…

Heroes.

Urgh.

The Sorting Hat chuckled in her head.

_‘Godric would be scandalised. He would have been proud to have you under his wing. Not only to antagonise Salazar that one of the descendants of his earliest students became a lion but because you do possess the noble qualities he admired in his students.’_

_‘I may have a few Hippogriff scars, broken ribs and been aflame more times than I care to recount that make an argument for recklessness,’_ Leta responded in her mind. “ _And I’m fairly certain ‘my nerve’ has caused some of those inflicted injuries as my first steps happened to land on my father and stepmothers last nerve. And as for chivalry, I would take the dragon and leave the damsel. Melt my knightly armour down into a nice tea kettle, and wish the people fighting the good fight all the best but I’d likely be too far removed to be within purchasing distance of a Daily Prophet to check.’_

_‘You are full of ambition, young raven, despite how humble those ambitions may be. Though I had thought you to be brave…’_

_‘I am not scared! Though that probably would have been more noble. I am just incredibly self-serving, you see. The greater good is a lovely ideal though I can easily get a morally righteous nine hours sleep after picking up some litter and giving a bowtruckle a boost if it can’t reach its branch.’_

_‘There’s that sharp wit that brings us to what may be the House that could benefit most from your contributions.’_

‘ _Ravenclaw_ ,’ she thought plainly. 

_‘I knew her very well. She would have been astounded by your wit and intellectual curiosity. Being with peers who value learning would aid to instil you with the discipline to reach the heights of your intelligence and academic endeavours.’_

Leta thought that Ravenclaw, rationally, perhaps made the most sense after all. She often wondered if she was as smart as her previous teachers, who all deemed her talent to be such a waste, had stated for she thought anyone could make heads and tails of spells and potions if they were locked up with nothing else to do for weeks at a time.

 _‘A fine House, indeed,’_ the Hat continued. _‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.’_

Leta suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. She agreed that Ravenclaw would be fine but, honestly, she had started to think that this House superiority was starting to border on the blood purity nonsense that was constantly spouted at her home.

Ravenclaw had apparently valued wit, learning, wisdom and intelligence above all else in her students. Leta struggled at how being intelligent or studious could correlate you to being of any more significant value. The ability to be clever and creative had no bearing on whether you were also cruel, cold and unkind.

Though Ravenclaw was also supposed to value acceptance so she thought that may make the experience slightly less insufferable and she hoped that they would not get too up in arms about her attitude to their precious academia.

She might be able to work her way through a spell book with ease, but she was far from academically motivated in the noble quest for knowledge. Leta was only interested in the parts that she would require – the rest was merely a survival instinct or to pass the time until she was legally allowed to leave these institutions or get expelled from all of them – whichever came first. 

 _‘What does motivate you then?’_ the Hat asked curiously.

_‘Excuse me?’_

_‘Your mind is running a million miles an hour, young raven. You may possess all the traits the founders valued in their students, but we haven’t found what motivates you.’_

Honestly, Leta was starting to think that the Founders sounded like dreadfully dull people. Picking and choosing who they believed were worthier of an education.

_‘In truth, I have to say I am quite motivated by the idea of not being murdered which has actually been surprisingly difficult thus far and that aspiration would be greatly helped along by being Sorted before my cousins generously bestow the wonderful ability to see Thestral’s on to each student and teacher here by blasting me out of the window.’_

Leta noticed Sebastian, one of the few who didn’t look angry or impatient, had moved over at some point to make a space next to him for her.

The Hat noticed her attention waver and through this small act of rare kindness shown to her, was finally able to access memories that may tell of her deepest motivators. For all her abrasiveness and cynicism, at the root of all her abilities and qualities was something surprising. _Compassion_.    

She had only exchanged a handful of words with this boy but already she valued him more than most people she’d met. She wasn’t to know if he was bright or brave or funny or interesting, but he was kind. By no means was she interested in being friends with the young Nott boy, far from it, but she would already jump in to take the Cruciatus Curse for him if he ever found himself in the unfortunate situation.

And then there was the boy on the train who had managed to find a place in the back of her mind. She had found him amusing and interesting and far more likeable than she would ever care to admit to herself. 

Leta’s innermost motivation, the drive behind all those talents, was a comforting, warm and fantastic universe of which her brother and her creatures were the bright centre. It seemed all that bravery, intelligence, cunning and determination were funnelled into the safety and wellbeing of that of which she held dearest.

Apart from her beloved brother, all the adoration, gentleness and love she lacked regarding most humans who had shown her nothing but cruelty was made up for tenfold in what she felt for all manner of magical creatures.

The Hat finally saw the young girl at her most pure self. Using her book smarts and resourcefulness to brew teething potions for her pained brother, sustenance for Marmites, and medicines for ill Jarveys. The scars slashed across her stomach from the Hippogriff she had attempted to remove a painful thorn from, cradling and keeping an orphaned Augurey under her bed, using a rock to knock out a lost Muggle who had wandered too close to her house and dragging the boy as far as she could manage before her family could find him.

Sometimes her methods were not refined and at times she was misguided but her heart was exceedingly good despite how disguised she would make it seem. She still believed it to be an inherently weak characteristic of herself.

_‘Hufflepuff?’_

_‘Bless you.’_

_‘No,’_ the Hat said. _‘Any thoughts on Hufflepuff House?’_

Leta scoffed. She didn’t even know the name of the fourth house until she’d read about it. Happy, jubilant types that valued friendship. Good lord. Hufflepuff sounded like the collective noun for a headache.

That Hat knew wherever she ended up she would thrive in whatever path she decided upon. Though it was at a crossroads at whether it should sort her where she belonged or where she would be safe. There was not a shadow of a doubt there would be repercussions for her not being placed in Slytherin. The Hat had considered this at great length – not wanting to be responsible for even more harm to come to her at the hands of her family. Though it were likely harm would come to her in time either way and perhaps another House could ensure the survival of that spirit though it all.

_‘The Founders would all be proud to have you in their House, Leta, you would do brilliantly in any of them…’_

Yes, the Founders would all have argued the point of why she belonged in their house, but the Hat knew who would have fought for her the most…

_‘What you may perceive as your weakness may indeed be your greatest strength and I believe that there will come a time in the future where you will finally understand my choice.’_

Leta sighed with resignation, relief and the tiniest shred of disappointment.

Slytherin.

‘HUFFLEPUFF!’

Leta waited impatiently, and in obvious annoyance now, for the Hat to go on another overly long spiel about how the house of sunshine and happiness could benefit her, to which she had some particularly colourful opinions to share on that matter, but nothing came.

She glanced up to see the rest of the Great Hall in shocked silence.

Slowly, a small number of students at the Hufflepuff table started clapping tentatively as a bunch of Gryffindors burst into laughter. Leta was confused and wondered worriedly if she had actually managed to confuse the Hat to death, having the poor object pass away on her head.

She felt Professor Dalibwyn slowly take the Hat from her head. She stared questioning up at the man who had nothing to offer her other than badly concealed shock and a rather rough pulling to her feet by the arm.

Sebastian looked a little crestfallen but started to clap, the only one at the Slytherin table to do so, a few other students – likely Muggle-borns who didn’t understand the controversy – clapped hesitantly until they noticed barely anyone else was and quickly stopped.

Leta glanced back, perplexed, at the teachers seated in a row behind her. The headmaster, she suspected from the central placement of him, looked gravely concerned and the other professors were an oddly hilarious mixture of shocked, confused, angry and muttering between themselves.

There was only one man that seemed genuinely happy for Leta at the table. His brilliant blue eyes were sparkling, albeit a little curiously, but joyfully enough and he raised his goblet to her. It was only then that Leta realised, staring at the kind professor in shock, that the Hat had not spoken to her but to everyone.

It had placed her in _Hufflepuff_.

Leta did her upmost to avoid looking at anyone directly when she turned back around, especially at the people seated around the Slytherin table.

So, this is how I die, Leta thought not knowing whether to laugh or cry, instead swinging her hands together to clap once and spring down the steps.   

She knew the possibility of her end being at the hands of her father and stepmother was rather high though she had anticipated she would meet her demise in a far more impressive, dangerous and exciting manner rather than being blasted into pieces due to something as prosaic as being sorted into, arguably, the most ridiculous House it had not even warranted importance enough to be critisised in her household.  

Leta considered whether Corvus and Clarisse could master the art of successfully packing Avada Kedavra into a Howler overnight as she walked towards the third table in the eerily quiet Hall, lined with students wearing yellow and black ties as hers would soon be.

An erratic flurry of movement caught her eye as she glanced up and saw the auburn-haired boy from the train, seated rather separately between a large gap of most of the other Hufflepuffs on his side of the bench who seemed uncooperative to make space for her, look around quickly as if to make room kindly and ended up knocking his water goblet over. Leta quickly sat down on the very edge of the bench closest to her, far from the boy that already seemed to be struggling socially enough as it was without her infliction.

She was far too preoccupied with pretending to be oblivious to the fury and irritation that she could very nearly feel burning into the back of her head from the other side of the room to pay any attention to the Headmasters speech.  

Throughout dinner she noticed some of the Hufflepuff’s were smiling hesitantly at her down the table, while some stared disbelieving. A large group looked like she had personally offended them by existing while a few others looked completely perplexed by the reaction of everyone to her.

Leta, still acutely aware this may be the last night she could very well be alive, still managed a smirk when she overheard a particularly distressed and suspicious cluster theorising that she was probably smart and evil and manipulated the Hat into putting her into Hufflepuff to help Slytherin win the House Cup.

If only the malevolent plans that were devised at her home were designed to rig school point system contests. Though she did pity this poor, blameless House for the trouble she would likely find herself in.

She had no doubt she would cost them a few diamonds from the hourglass placed at the front of the Great Hall.

For whatever trouble this surprising development would cause her, at least this year may prove to be less dull than she had expected.

 

**_Ubuntu - the belief that we are defined by our compassion and kindness toward others._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am overwhelmed by the kudos and kind comments. I had some particularly antagonistic comments (albeit on a different writing forum) about this story that disheartened me a little and I lost the motivation to continue writing it for a while but your feedback and encouragement reignited my desire to keep going with it. Don't get me wrong, I love constructive criticism, thoughts and ideas. In fact, I think it's one of the most appreciated forms of feedback that someone wants to invest the time and thoughts into sharing their knowledge on how to make a character or story of yours better. However, it seemed this feedback I'm talking about stemmed purely from hatred of the character and the pairing but I suppose that is the ugly side of fandoms and fans who are far more obsessed with 'shipping' than storytelling. But I'm paying them no mind anymore and I do thank everyone who has taken the time to comment, leave kudos or follow this story and credit you to getting me back on to it. 
> 
> This chapter is quite long, I now realise. I got quite carried away with Leta's Sorting as I'm trying to introduce some of her inner workings to give explanation for future behaviours and such. Also, I should mention that I quite literally had this story in my head driving back from the midnight screening of the first Fantastic Beasts. Of course, it has developed over time but there are so many pieces of information coming out that the story I initially had in my head may diverge from canon where the story I have planned doesn't fit with the new information so I will do my best. For instance, as you'll notice from this chapter, I placed Leta in Hufflepuff despite the popular belief/possible confirmation that she is a Slytherin. I did contemplate fixing it to fit but there are so many future chapters and subplots that I would have had to completely redo and I decided I could allow a little canon divergence for that detail. Also, it was before we found out she is with Theseus so I am going to have to decide whether to work that in somehow or stick to my original idea. But I do think I will end up writing some pieces that are Slytherin Leta, which I love, and a few Theseus x Leta pieces because I have grown to love that pair too but it would likely be a slightly different Leta to the one I'm writing here. But please enjoy either way!


	6. Eccedentesiast

Leta made quick work of weaving through the students, at the end of the feast, avoiding her cousins who were looking particularly surly as they pushed a few first year Hufflepuffs out of the way of the exit.

She ducked behind a statue in the Entrance Hall, not at all upset at the idea of throwing a hex at them if need be but knowing they were practised and willing in far nastier ones than she.

A tall Gryffindor, who was walking away from the Hufflepuff group, noticed her and walked over in suspicion.

“Good evening, Miss Lestrange,” he approached her with his arms crossed but using his best attempts to be friendly. “I’m Theseus…”

“Okay, great, could you go be Theebus over there?” she nodded sideways to an empty corner, still watching Vinda who was recruiting another bunch of students to look for her.

“What are you doing down there?”

Leta looked up at the unnecessarily tall boy who she immediately recognised as the bossy, distrusting one on the train.

“Limbering up,” she explained stretching her leg out. “One hundred and forty-two moving staircases – that’s a lot of physiological and psychological preparation.”

“I think you’ll find the Hufflepuff common room is underground.”

“Great!” she exclaimed jumping to her feet. “Thanks, that’s… _Hugely Beneficent_ of you,” she said tapping his ‘HB’ badge and ducking under his arm to follow the Hufflepuff group while her search party, or lynch mob, had their backs to her.

Eventually, the night’s loud festivities and reunions in the common room settled and most students had retreated to their respective dormitories to either continue their conversations or sleep in preparation for tomorrow mornings classes.

Newt was sitting in front of the fire with his back against the empty couch and Albertyne stretching out on the rug and eyeing a fifth years pet rat. He flipped through his copy of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_.

It had been Theseus’ copy, but it may as well have been new given the condition Theseus always left his old textbooks in. The only indication it was second hand was the neat, handwritten notes he’d left in the margin to help Newt along when he would inevitable inherit the book.

Newt was not the most ardent reader by any means but given the fact he struggled to keep up with the steady stream of first-year homework, he figured it would be some time before he’d be able to read for leisure again.

The boys in his dormitory were still rowdy with excitement, likely not intent on sleeping anytime soon, and Newt struggled to interact with them and knew that attempting to sleep would be futile.

Albertyne eventually grew tired of Newt’s idle company and sprung at the innocent rodent. Luckily, Newt had grown extremely quick at catching creatures and lunged at Albertyne, successfully catching her around the middle and crashing onto the wooden floor. 

A few students who were still occupying the common room glanced over at him, seemingly unsurprised. A girl sitting at the larger round table playing Gobstones with some other students Newt recognised from class gave him a friendly wave which he left a little too late to return.

The noise of the upper level of the common room that drifted over the balcony started to lull as more students bid goodnight and Newt contemplated sidling past the sixth-year couple tangled together passionately on a single armchair by the stairs to find Albertyne a less tempting environment.

Before he could decide, the grumpy feline jumped out of his relaxed hold and ran across to the far edge of the round lower level and under a small table that would normally be illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the small round windows had it not been nearing midnight.

“Albertyne, you little bugger,” Newt muttered while he followed and dived under the table to grab the cat, but his arms closed around nothing. Confused, he glanced up to see Albertyne looking extremely smug and sitting on the lap of a cross-legged person on the chair. 

A pair of bright, pretty eyes appeared under the table with an upside-down face, and a tangle of curls that brushed the floor.

“You _are_ extremely friendly, aren’t you, Mister Scamander?” she smiled in amusement and he jumped up, smacking his head on the table so hard it nearly overturned.

“Ah, I’m…sorry,” he mumbled as he fell into the seat on the other side, rubbing his head and examining the damage he’d caused which seemed to be limited to a small mess of exploding snap cards littered over the small table. “I was just…”

“Looking for this one?” Leta asked as Albertyne popped her head up to rest on the table as she enjoyed a scratch behind the ears.

“Yes, she’s, um…s-slippery sometimes.”

He regretted his choice of words immediately as Albertyne was as fluffy as anything but Leta smiled down at the cat. “All the cheeky ones are. Misbehaved as anything and then make liars out of you when they’re in company.”

She bundled Albertyne up, handing her gently to Newt who accepted gratefully. Leta smiled and went back to what she had been doing beforehand which seemed to be spinning a chocolate frog card on the table absentmindedly.

Newt took this as his cue to leave but hesitated when he remembered how he had wished, like most of his social interactions, that he could redo his meeting with her on the train. Unfortunately, his body had started to respond before his mind had time to decide and he fell back into the chair ungracefully after half-standing up to leave. 

Leta glanced up again expectantly and he jumbled out the most pitiful question he could manage to get out.

“How are…um, how has y-your night been?” he asked not being sure what to do with his arms, crossing them over on the table twice before finding a place for them. “So far?”

“Well, I stress-ate twelve unbuttered bread rolls and nothing else,” she said thoughtfully. “And I have since been contemplating whether a last will and testament written on the border of a chocolate frog card would have any legal standing,” she paused thoughtfully. “Do you collect them?”

Newt shook his head.

“How is your evening?” she asked back, using her quill to decorate Nicholas Flamel’s head with tiny bowtruckles. 

“Oh, um…fine, I s-suppose. Normal.”

It might have been the dim light of the fire on the other side of the room, but Newt thought she looked more defeated and forlorn than she had on the train.

He had, along with everyone else it seemed, assumed for her to be placed in Slytherin House and anticipated whatever kindness and intrigue he’d seen in her on the train would quickly be stomped out by the particularly unfriendly people he had seen her leave the train with.

It disheartened him that it already seemed to be happening to her in his own House.

Newt had overheard a lot of unpleasantness about her Sorting from the students in his House and had only hoped she had managed to stay oblivious to it. It had inspired so much annoyance in him over dinner that it overtook his painful awkwardness and he had attempted to find her after the Feast so she wasn’t left behind to find her own way to the common room.

That was, of course, until Theseus seemingly turned into a Legilimens at the same moment and caught him by his robes…

Newt thought that she likely experienced some of the hostility he had hoped to spare her from as she looked extremely weary and melancholic even while smiling and adding a comical pair of sunglasses to the noted alchemist’s picture.

Her eyes and under her nose looked a little flushed as if any evidence of tears had been angry scrubbed away. 

“Will your f-family be angry that you’re-you’re not in Slytherin?” Newt asked hesitantly.

“Oh, absolutely,” Leta said continuing her work and leaning one hand against her cheek. “I’ll be lucky to be alive next year, but you see, I just look very pretty in green and I’m just grieving for that loss.”

Newt smiled and played with the end of his tie. “I guess, the upside is…n-nobody else looks good in yellow either.”

Leta laughed and set aside her quill to examine him making Newt a little nervous again. She leaned back in her seat and considered something.

“Well, sunshine yellow isn’t my usual aesthetic, but one must make do. On the bright side, the unflattering yellow bright side, it will be easy for me to catch a niffler.”

Newt chuckled without thought, forgetting his nervousness. “You’d probably be better off in Gryffindor for that. They’re scarlet and gold.”

Leta did not miss the way his tone fell a little flat on ‘ _Gryffindor’_.

“Then if your brother stood still long enough they’d be crawling over him,” she mused. “Especially with his badge polished within an inch of its life and the gleaming tiara atop his head.”

He let out a bright, lovely laugh that made the Gobstone table turn around curiously at the beaming pair. Newt wiped his eyes on his sleeve and felt his smile falter a little and the pair fell quiet again. 

“M-my brother told me before… to stay away from you.”

“Your brother is smart,” Leta commented, spinning a chocolate frog card like a spin top again. “And right.”

Newt frowned slightly. “He likes to think so.”

Leta paused for a moment.

“Do you know how I got kicked out of my last school?” she asked catching the spinning card between her palms. 

“I don’t care,” Newt answered quickly.

He had, of course, heard all the gossip and outrageous tales that ranged from imprisoning and impersonating the Headmistress for a whole term to enchanting one of the ice sculptures in the Dining Chamber to come alive and gobble up all the muggle-born students.

“You should,” a smile tugged on one side of her lips still staring at the card. “It was very cool.”

Newt smiled back and arranged the exploding cards he scattered neatly into a pile as Leta watched him. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Leta placed the card and quill aside, still examining him in curiosity.

“You really don’t care do you?”

“About, about what?” Newt asked, glancing up at her.

Leta chuckled, looking down at her palms and not knowing quite where to begin.

“Any of it.”

“Not at all,” he told her. “Though…I’m, I’m not smart enough to know wh-what’s going on most of the time a-anyway.”

“I would say you have a better scope of it than most people which makes you very smart.”

Newt reddened but managed not to say anything too traumatising for him to mull over for days and on end and just returned her smile.

Leta was the first to realise how long they sat smiling at one another until she seemingly snapped out of it and cleared her throat.

“Well,” she said cheerfully. “I’m going to try and tap into those quaint Hufflepuff traits I supposedly possess somewhere and do my best.”

“To…what?”

Leta smirked, standing up from her chair and gathering her writing supplies. “Stay well away from you.”

“Why?” Newt blurted out, his eyes widening in surprise and his heart sinking.

He knew better than anyone that he could be insufferable but usually he could rough out at what point he started to lose a person’s interest or favour. Newt thought this had been one of his most pleasant interactions yet but perhaps he was becoming so unbearable it had weaved deep enough that he wasn’t even able to distinguish it anymore.

Leta sighed and leaned against the table on her palms but her eyes were still twinkling with kindness down at him.

“I have to maintain some degree of rectitude to reminisce on and atone for the ill repute I expect to acquire here,” she told him, back to her usual closed off self. “You could be my one good deed to look back on.”

Newt just stared in confusion which only made her chuckle lightly again. Newt went to speak but a peal of laughter rang out from across the room to which they both glanced over at. 

“They’re just like creatures you know,” she mused and briefly touched his shoulder so lightly he barely felt the pressure despite being acutely aware of it. “They can tell when you’re nervous.”

Leta glanced back at him with something that looked like regret in her doe-like eyes before stroking Albertyne’s head and taking her leave with an encouraging smile.

Newt, his heart feeling lighter and his anxiety over the following day momentarily forgotten, closed his hand over the scribbled-on chocolate frog card as he watched her leave up the stairs.

****

**_Eccedentesiast – someone who hides pain behind a smile_ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick Newt and Leta chat before their school year begins because they deserve every shred of happiness they can get.


End file.
